


Unexpected Propositions

by sweet_neverwhere



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Pro-Templar, Viscount!Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_neverwhere/pseuds/sweet_neverwhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke knew that being Viscount wouldn't be easy, but it doesn't help that the Seneschal has a habit of dropping things in her lap when she leasts expects them.</p><p>Set post-game so this going to be a bit of a spoiler minefield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dropping the Ball

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a Dragon Age fic before so this is a foray into the unknown for me. This Hawke is a F!Hawke rogue who sided with the Templars. She's based off my Hawke though I've given her the default name here, she tended to bounce from one personality set to another but she was mostly between sarcastic and aggressive. Her romance with Fenris was that of friendship.
> 
> R&R and tell me if you want me to continue. I adore writing F!Hawke, and Fenris is a challenge that I'm sure I'd enjoy :D
> 
> Please also point out any errors you might find, I'm dreadful at proofreading and my beta has buggered off ¬¬
> 
> I own nothing here, but BioWare has part of my soul on timeshare.

The sun was setting over Kirkwall, bathing the city in a warm orange glow that disguised the fact that the temperatures were almost near to freezing outside and would almost certainly drop into the minus figures as soon as darkness fell.

The workers on the Chantry site downed their tools as the loud bell sounded out from the center of the Viscount's Way and signalled the end of the working day. After the distruction of the Chantry, the hours of the day had gone past without the usual tolling of the bells high within the towers that echoed across the whole city and many labourers had complained that they were being worked longer than they should have been because their employers couldn't work out the accurate time for them to clock off. So, after a few months of planning, a large bell had been purchased from the dwarves of Orzammar (after careful negotiations and a substantial sum of money) and erected in the large open gallery in front of the Keep.

Everyone was grateful.

 _Fifth bell already?_  Thought Hawke as she huddled down into her chair, pulling the unflattering Robes of Office tight around her and rubbing her hands together to get some warmth back into them. She was only half listening as Seneschal Bran droned on about the cost of repairs to almost everything in Kirkwall, let alone the 'ridiculous' expenditure that was happening when it came to the Chantry. She nodded and made agreeable noises when she thought they were needed but she had heard it all before, it was a weekly - if not daily - ritual to be endured. She knew what he was going to say before he said it and she was just listening enough to catch anything new that might slip into the conversation and let the Seneschal in on the fact that his voice had become mere background noise to her own thoughts.

Currently, her thoughts were on how cold it was. It wasn't even Satinalia yet and the temperature indicated that when it arrived it would be a harsh one indeed.  _Just what we need_ , she thought grumpily,  _workers that are already irritated, frozen to the bone. If it gets much colder, work on the Chantry will have to be suspended…_  That wasn't a nice thought. In her opinion, the Chantry shouldn't be rebuilt quite so soon, but there was rumbling from Orlais and the earlier threat that Sister Nightingale had spoken of deeply worried Hawke to the point where she actively pushed for work to start early. The last thing Kirkwall needed after the debacle in the Gallows was the Divine sending the might of the Chantry down on the city - so far, she had been placated with the news that the Circle was under control and rogue mages dealt with severely. But Hawke feared those words wouldn't hold them off for long.

"…any news from Starkhaven yet?" Bran's droning question snapped Hawke out of her solipsistic trance and she focused on him, frowning at the question before nodding once. She pushed aside the pair of distinctive spiked gauntlets that had been thrown casually onto her desk and picked up a half-rolled parchment bearing the seal of the Vael family.

Sebastian had left for his city shortly after the fight in the Gallows, calling upon those still loyal to his family and taking back his land quickly and with minimal bloodshed. The Prince was a very good friend of Hawke's, and she was certain that he would hold to his promise of help once he could get everything settled within his own country. He wasn't going to take back his lands at one point, swearing to renew his vows to the Chantry and leave Starkhaven in the hands of one of his distant relatives. But after what Anders did, his stance had changed. But despite all of this, Hawke knew that the former Chantry brother would come good on his word.

The message had proven her right, though it was not nearly as much as she had hoped. But any aid was welcome at this point in time.

"This arrived this morning," Hawke began with a sigh, holding out the parchment to the Seneschal. "Seba-" she caught herself and cut herself off with a wince, still not used to all the formality that came with her position. She cleared her throat and began again. "Prince Vael states that their Circle has…been causing 'problems'," she frowned, screwing her eyes tight in thought.

"There have been minor uprisings, a few escapes and, worryingly, the death of a few of the children. He has requested that the remaining children under the age of ten be sent here for their own safety. Though our own Circle is not exactly  _healthy_ right now, I think we need to take them. From what Seba - Prince Vael says - or rather doesn't say - it's not safe for them to remain." She paused with a sigh, running her fingers absentmindedly over the smooth metal of the segmented claws that made up the gauntlets on her desk. The mages were getting out of control everywhere, Kirkwall seemed like the only place that was in order despite everything that had happened.  _Center of a hurricane, Marian,_ she thought with a grimace,  _center of a hurricane_.

"Other than that," she began again, a hand coming up to rub her forehead before trailing down to pinch the bridge of her nose as her eyes squeezed shut again, "he will return in Guardian with as many workers as he can, along with specialists and architects to aid our own."

"And what of funds?" Bran looked up at the Lady Viscount with a sharp expression that she matched with her own. He quickly turned his gaze back to the extensive message.

"Apparently Goran Vael was one for fancy parties and an expensive lifestyle," she spat, mirroring the contempt that the letter had contained for the lesser Vael that Sebastian had replaced. "He didn't leave much in the way of funds.

"Thankfully, Sebastian," Hawke either didn't notice the slip or didn't bother to correct herself, "has endeared himself to his people already. They have raised a considerable sum to 'aid an allied city-state in it's time of need'". Seeming to quote directly off the letter, she sent an almost self-satisfied half-smirk towards the Seneschal. He had never trusted Sebastian to keep to his promise and it was very gratifying to see the look of grim resignation ghost over his the man's face.

Hawke had never liked him and she had taken making him uncomfortable as a pastime while she was in office. Though if she was honest, she had been doing it for years beforehand - but now she could do it in an  _official_ capacity. It was an interesting diversion in the least, and at least trying to think up new ways to see the veins in his temples and neck throb made the dull office days somewhat bearable.

She heard the figure standing wordlessly behind her shift slightly and smiled faintly to herself _. He helps too, if for totally different reasons_ , she thought as she pulled her expression back into one of utter professionalism as the Seneschal placed the parchment back onto the desk where it half-rolled itself up again.

"Will that be all, Seneschal?" she asked, her tone clipped for business - and also to urge him to finish whatever else he was going to moan about and leave her be. Her day was almost over and with the cold beginning to seep through the windows and through the stone around her, she was wishing the time away so she could retire to a warm fire and a hot meal.

Seneschal Bran merely gave a neat half-bow and turned to leave. Two steps from the door, however, he turned suddenly as if remembering something. Hawke figured that he was doing it on purpose and merely kept her face impassive with the slightest hint of questioning. She didn't want him to notice that she had been waiting for him to turn - she already knew that he was going to drop something unpleasant onto her plate and it was in his nature to do it when she was 'unsuspecting'.  _Arsehole._

"Ah yes, tomorrow morning you have a meeting to attend. I believe that it's about the annual Satinalia supper and ball that's traditionally held in Haring." With that, he half-bowed again, muttered a "good evening, Lady Viscount," and left.

Hawke stared after him, her expression truly blank. Instead of the forced mask of indifference, she stared dumbstruck at the doors to her office. Silently, her jaw began to work as she tried to form the words that just wouldn't come. She was expecting something minor, something trivial that would irk her. This downright flustered her and broke her casual demeanour.

"I…what…did… _ball?_ " she spluttered, almost shrieking out that final word as she finally found her voice. If there was one thing that Hawke hated more than darkspawn (and uncle Gamlen), it was formal events. Especially ones that involved  _dresses_  and  _dancing_. It wasn't that she didn't look stunning in a dress or that she couldn't dance; it was more the fact that she would be forced to rub elbows with the nobility  _whilst_ wearing a dress and possibly while dancing.

"I'll give you  _ball,_ Bran, see if I don't." It came out in a low growl as she pulled the uncomfortable, unflattering and impractical Robe of Office up one leg and snatched the small dagger that was strapped to her thigh. "Stupid, stuck up, pompous…" she grumbled under her breath before snapping her wrist forward and sending the dagger spinning across the room to land in the wood of the door with a dull  _thunk_.

As she watched the handle wobble and quiver as it settled, a low chuckle rumbled from behind her and she spun around to glare daggers at the turned back of the one who had been there for the entire conversation. For the entire day in fact.

"And what do  _you_  find so funny?" Hawke tried to sound as indignant as possible, folding her arms across her chest and huffing dramatically. Truthfully though, she found it difficult as most of her anger had fled when she had heard him laugh. She still didn't understand how he could lift her mood with something so simple as a chuckle.

Fenris uncrossed his arms and turned with a heavy sigh, meeting her glare with a knowing smirk. He knew that her scowl was forced, that her posture was far too relaxed for Hawke to be truly annoyed. And the look in her eyes was one of amusement rather than resentment.

"You should have realised that the Viscount is expected to entertain the nobility before you took the job, Hawke," he tried to keep his voice serious, but with the childish pout that was spreading on Hawke's lips he found it rather difficult.

"Oh, well thank you for that Ser Know-It-All. Would it have killed someone to tell  _me_ this, I might have reconsidered?" Her frown deepened as the amused smirk on the elf's lips grew almost insubstantially - most wouldn't notice, but Hawke knew him far too well - she could read emotion on that face where others would say there was none. And what she was seeing there now was starting to poke at the annoyance she felt for Bran's unexpected announcement.

"I highly doubt that. And you can't blame anyone else for your lack of foresight." Fenris was growing smug, but he had yet to notice the spark of mischief that was beginning to grow in Hawke's eyes.

"You do realise that I'll need a partner for this  _event_ , don't you?" Hawke's expression turned triumphant as Fenris's face changed from smirking to something distinctly less smug. He looked as horrified as Hawke felt just moments ago. Now it was her turn to look smug.

"You want  **me**  to accompany you?" Fenris was both aghast at the concept and actually rather flattered that she would want him on her arm to such a formal event. He blinked at her, somewhat dumbfounded and rooted to the spot. He merely searched her face for any signs of teasing, any signs that she might just say 'only joking'. But he found nothing, and that let an age old nervousness creep up his spine.

Upon seeing the apprehension flicker in his searching gaze, Hawke let her folded arms drop to her side and her smile softened into one of reassurance. She took a few steps towards him, reaching out to take his hands in hers and stroking her thumb across the back of his fingers as she put on her prettiest (albeit childish) pout. "I don't see anyone else here, do you?"

Fenris was obviously growing more and more uneasy at the prospect when he saw that she was totally serious. He refused to meet her eyes as she walked towards him and left his hands limp in hers as she tenderly, reassuringly rubbed the back of them.  _Surely she cannot be serious?_  But as he met her eyes and saw the expression on her face…

"Are you sure that's wise, Hawke?" He finally broke the silence, letting the things he didn't say hang in the air between them. She was the Viscount, a noble, someone in power and he…he was nothing. An elven ex-slave. Even though, time and time again she had told him that she didn't care about that, that he was the one she would choose a thousand times over, he still felt unworthy of her. He had heard the whispers when their relationship first got around all those months ago, that the Champion had chosen some filthy knife-ear over all the available nobles in Kirkwall. Back then it hadn't bothered him quite so much, but now she wasn't  _just_ the Champion.

Hawke visibly sagged as she let out a long-suffering sigh and released one of Fenris's hands to run her fingers through his hair before letting the tips gently brush along the top edge of his ear. Fenris instinctively relaxed under her gentle touch and leaned into her hand, bringing a soft smile to Hawke's lips while her thumb absentmindedly made small circles on the back of his hand.

"Fenris, there is no one else in Thedas who I want by my side," she soothed, her voice soft and gentle as she continued her tender ministrations, causing Fenris's eyes to slip shut - though his brow was still crinkled in consternation. "Who cares what those Hightown knobs think. To the Void with them if they think they can judge me for my choice in men. Most of those haggard old dowagers and preening peahens wouldn't know a good man if they saw one. There are few noble men in the nobility, I think Gamlen proves that point quite well." She finished with an ignoble snort and wrinkled her nose at the thought of her  _beloved_  uncle in the nobility.

Though he had listened attentively, Fenris never responded to her words. He couldn't find the right words to say. Her devotion to him was still something he was confused by, nothing he had done in his life deserved the attentions of this beautiful, caring woman that stood before him. He still didn't understand why she waited for him all those years after he did what he did to her…but as time went on, he found he didn't care that the reason would forever elude him. All he cared about was Hawke.  _His_ Hawke.

After a few moments of silence, he reached out and placed his free hand upon her hip and opened his eyes to look into her openly adoring expression. With a single nod, he conceded defeat. "Very well, Hawke." It was almost a murmur as part of him hoped that she would reconsider, but her smile only grew and she moved her hand from her ear to his jaw.

Gentle fingers tilted his slightly down turned face upwards and she leaned forward, placing the lightest of kisses upon his lips before releasing him and dropping her hand to his forearm.

"Thank you," she said, just as quietly as he had before her faint smile turned mischievous again. "I'm glad that I won't be forced to suffer alone." A giggle escaped her as she watched a single eyebrow arch at her words. "Are you going to be coming to dinner tonight? Aveline and Donnic will be coming over and Orana's making her game stew again and you know she always makes too much."

Noticing the effort that Hawke was making to change the subject and put him at ease, Fenris pretended to considered her offer. He never refused, of course, and Hawke knew this. He always ended up at her estate for dinner, he also ended up there for breakfast too, but she would always give him an out. A man with his past had every right to be independent and she would give him his space whenever he wanted it for as long as he wanted it.  _So long as it's not for another three years,_  she amended.

But Fenris had been spending less and less time at his own mansion, slowly but surely what little effects he had were moving themselves the short distance from his estate to hers. It was with great delight that Hawke had noticed the spare wardrobe she had told him he could use was slowly filling up. Even one of his old swords (a wicked looking thing given to her by a Qunari as payment for finding a lost patrol along the Wounded Coast, though she couldn't recall the name) had crept into the spare room without her noticing.

It didn't surprise her when he accepted her invitation but she beamed at him nonetheless and squeezed his hand in silent thanks. "I think I'm done for the day, thank the Maker. Shall we go?" His answer was a mere nod of the head and he released her to pick up his gauntlets from the table and she went to pull her dagger from where it had stuck fast in the door and place it back into it's sheath on her thigh.

And then, without a word said to anyone, the Lady Viscount left the Keep arm in arm with her elf into the cold evening air.


	2. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...really don't know where I'm going with this.  
> Relationship fics are...very new ground to me.
> 
> I can feel Fenris beginning to slip OOC a little here - he is such a complex character, I really don't think I can do him justice no matter how hard I try.  
> Ah well.
> 
> Reviews are much much loved, even if they are to point out where my writing has fallen down. Don't hesitate to do that btw, I'm lacking a beta and my own proofreading skills are non-existent.
> 
> This is a bit of a rambly chapter, nothing really happens, but I find I like examining the more mundane aspects of life that get overlooked.  
> Is 4000 words too long a chapter? Too short? Just right? I can never be sure. This one just kept going and I decided to cut it off before Aveline and Donnic got involved...was that the right thing to do?
> 
> As always, BioWare owns all - I'm just playing with their toys.

A frigid wind gusted down the Viscount's Way, whipping around the awful Robes of Office and biting cold and hard into Hawke's legs sending an involuntary shiver up her spine. Feeling her flesh break out into goosebumps, she cuddled further into the strong grip of Fenris as he escorted her back towards her mansion. Her cold hands were wrapped tightly around the metal of his vambrace of the arm he had linked with hers as she tried to gain some kind of warmth from simply being near him; instinctively, Fenris put his free hand on top of one of hers and pressed his exposed palm onto the back. He never looked at her, nor she at him, but they both wore a content, faint smile despite the chill night air.

They pulled away from each other slightly as they reached the top of the stairs, never letting each other go but giving enough room to step freely without the risk of pulling the other over. This was now a well practiced routine and Fenris was glad that Hawke had taken their first 'accident' to heart. On their first decent back from the Keep together, she had silently insisted on clinging to him and she had ended up pulling both of them down several steps before Fenris regained his balance and hauled a very embarrassed Hawke back onto her feet. She hadn't meant to, he knew this, but she had been so _clingy_ those first few weeks after they had got back together that something was bound to happen. Fenris also knew it was out of fear that she had kept so close to him. She was so scared of him leaving again that it got to the stage where he just _had_ to talk some sense into her, to let her know he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. After that, she had been content to give him space - be it an inch or half a mile. So long as she knew that he would come back, she was satisfied. Even she admitted she didn't know she was sticking to him like glue until he brought it up.

As they descended, the welcome sight of the Hawke estate came into view. It wasn't a flashy building, simply fronted and overgrown with ivy that Hawke refused to have removed ("it adds to the charm" she had stated when her companions were helping her renovate it). Some of the Hightown houses were so ostentatious, adorned with awnings and banners depicting family crests or dressed in such a manner, Hawke wondered if she hadn't been magically transported to Orlais. But not the old Amell estate, the only thing that made it stood out was the two crests either side of the door which Bodahn insisted on polishing until they gleamed. The thin, tall windows were all illuminated, the warm light inside inviting on such a cold evening, and Hawke sighed happily as they neared.

Once upon a time, she had despised the place - all it had held were bad memories and bitter feelings. She had called it an empty relic, devoid of life and love. Fenris knew why, as did Varric and Aveline, but the rest were left to wonder. She had forged into the Deep Roads to get enough money to buy the place back, but she had lost her sister to the Gallows along the way - that was one blow. She had confided in Fenris whilst they were in that blight taken hole that the only reason why she was down there was to get safety for her mother and sister. And with Bethany gone, she believed she had failed. Another blow was losing her mother to that madman. After that fateful night she had been home less and less, spending her time between missions at either the Hanged Man, or in one of Fenris's many spare rooms. She only went home to pick up messages and to check on the servants it seemed.

And yet during the past year, something had changed. Something had settled in Hawke and she had taken to spending more and more time in the estate, though she was often not alone. Her evenings were either spent holding suppers with her companions, or spent with Fenris during one of their many reading lessons in her ever-growing library. Even on the wet days where everything was rained off, she passed the time learning how to play the lute (badly) from Orana, writing letters, or simply reading in peace. Fenris wasn't exactly sure what had triggered it, but Hawke had said something about family and 'savouring what you had'. And he was taken aback and deeply honoured when, one day completely out of the blue, Hawke had said that she classed _him_ as family.

So when she sighed her happy little sigh at the sight of her family home, Fenris couldn't help but smile to himself slightly. In truth, he didn't class his dilapidated mansion as 'home'. It was merely where he lived. No; home, to him, was wherever Hawke was. Be that a rundown hovel in Lowtown, a campsite on the Wounded Coast, or an expansive estate in Hightown. And anywhere in between.

"What are you smiling at?" Hawke asked him as she noticed his expression when he reached for the handle, her eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. Fenris merely let his lopsided smile turn into a devious smirk as he opened the door and muttered "wouldn't you like to know?" in her ear as she passed, causing her to giggle like a lovestruck teenager.

It was only when the moment had passed that they heard the ungodly cacophony coming from further inside the house. Both stared blankly at the open door to the main hall, blinking as they tried to figure out what the racket was made up of. It was Hawke that recognised it first and her eyes began to roll in realisation. A low groan escaped her as her fingers came up to rub at the crease forming between her brows, this was followed by a heavy sigh as she dragged her hand down her face and visibly sagged.

"Merrill." It was spoken in an exhale, shaking her head with the faintest hint of a resigned growl at which Fenris turned to her with an eyebrow raised in questioning. With another sigh, Hawke merely waved him off and began to plod towards the fireplace which glowed welcomingly in the main hall.

"Ever since she learned that Orana is not only good at playing the lute but also a very talented singer she's been… _pestering_ her to teach her how to sing." Hawke told Fenris over her shoulder as he followed her to the fire, her hand absentmindedly finding the top of her Mabari's head as he padded over to her and pressed his shoulder against her leg.

"As you can hear, she's an utterly _wonderful_ singer," she stated flatly, gesturing with her free hand to the tuneless singing that was echoing through the mansion from one of the drawing rooms and gaining a chuckle from Fenris as he was pulling off his gauntlets.

"Maker, how does she manage to get _worse_ with every lesson? And poor Orana's playing beautifully too…" Hawke was straining to hear the enchanting, lilting sounds of the young elf's lute over the loud, out-of-tune wailing that Merrill was doing. She sounded vaguely like a cat being murdered. Very slowly.

"I hope she hasn't been too much of a distraction for Orana, I don't think Aveline and Donnic would be too happy if I put my infamously lazy eggs and bacon in front of them. Again."

"I wouldn't be too disappointed if that was on the menu," Fenris said casually as he began undoing the buckles on his chest plate while wandering towards the stairs.

"Well of course _you_ wouldn't. Maker's breath, you'd live off the stuff if I let you."

"Only if _you_ cook it, Hawke," he smirked at her over the banister of the landing before disappearing into the bedroom to store his armour. Hawke merely shook her head and rolled her eyes at his retreating back and walked towards the room where Merrill was 'singing'.

She entered without knocking, causing the Dalish girl to cut off in the middle of a strangled note with a start - which caused Orana to jump and one of the strings on her lute to snap with a loud _twang_. Instantly Merrill started babbling at Orana, furiously apologising before bouncing over to where Hawke watched on, utterly bemused by the scene in front of her.

"You're back early Hawke, did your day go well? Is there a problem? I think I'm getting much better at my singing you know, it's like I can hear the improvement in my own voice. Doesn't Orana play beautifully, Hawke? She could play at weddings. Do you know if there's going to be any wedding's soon, Hawke? I love weddings. I think you'd look really pretty as a bri-"

"Merrill! For the fifth time, please slow down." Hawke sounded exasperated as she finally managed to cut off the stream of words that were just spilling out of the over-excited mage girl's mouth. After all these years, Hawke never did understood how she could just keep talking on and on and on about nothing. Hawke was just glad that she had managed to stop her before she forged deeper into the subject of _marriage_. That was one subject that Hawke wasn't willing to broach just yet. Or at all, if the petulant child side of her got her way - the side that had once told her mother that she'd stay single forever out of rebellion of her mother's unwanted matchmaking ways. Well, she had stayed at least partly true to that - she was still unwed at least.

Still, she heaved a weary sigh and held up a hand in an effort to placate the dizzy elf in front of her. "Merrill…you do realise that it's already nearly sixth bell? Shouldn't you be getting home, before it gets too cold out?" _I really don't want to entertain you as well tonight_ , she added, mentally.

"By the Creators is that the time?" Merrill gasped, diving to grab her small bag of Maker knows what and hauling it over her head and shoulder. "I promised Varric I'd meet him in the Hanged Man at fifth! I'd better go. Thank you Orana!" And with that, she ran off in a rush, leaving an utterly perplexed Hawke in her wake, her mouth open in utter confusion.

Shaking herself out her befuddlement, she blinked at Orana before smiling. "I hope she hasn't been too much of a bother today, Orana. That girl is a mystery, even to me…"

"No Mistress, she has actually been rather helpful. She helped me make the stock for the stew tonight."

For all the years that Orana had worked in her household, Hawke still hadn't been able to get her to call her anything but 'Mistress' even though she was a fully paid servant and no longer a slave. _I seem to collect them, apparently,_ she thought with wry amusement as she compared the two former slaves in her house and how polar opposite they were.

"From the silence, I'm guessing that _she's_ gone?" The distaste for the Dalish elf that Fenris still had for her evident in his voice, Hawke merely flicked her eyes up at the ceiling before turning to see him standing at the threshold in his tunic and leggings. She couldn't help but let her eyes run down those bare arms of his appreciatively before she smiled and nodded.

"Mercifully, yes. Left in a hurry. Peace at last." She sighed drifting towards him and draping her arms around his shoulders playfully, barely noticing Orana slipping past on her way to the kitchens with her eyes averted. _No_ , she thought, _I don't think you could get two more different people than Orana and Fenris._

"How _do_ you stand to wear that thing, Hawke? I already feel itchy." His fingers pulled at the sleeve of the rough material of her official robe as it rubbed against his neck. It hung like a cloth sack on Hawke's lithe frame, hiding all her curves and it reminded Fenris of a mage's robe far too much.

"Ugh, tell me about it. I've half a mind to throw the blighted thing on the fire."

"I would much prefer seeing you in something more…flattering."

A single eyebrow raised as Hawke pulled away from Fenris and placed her hands on her hips, bunching up the robe and pulling it inwards to flatter the curve of her waist. "Well now, I think I can manage that." She said with a smirk, backing away from him before hitching the front of the robe up over her feet as she dashed up the stairs.

Fenris couldn't help but chuckle at her antics as he followed in Orana's tracks and made his way down the small flight of stairs to the kitchens where the elven girl was worrying over the large pot of game stew. After a quick glance around the almost impossibly clean kitchen, Fenris noticed Bodahn and Sandal busying themselves with some form of apple dessert but not one bottle of wine in the kitchen. Frowning, he took two steps towards the slip of an elf before she noticed him and shrank backwards away from where she was fussing. Hawke had once told Fenris that Orana feared him still from their first meeting in the slaver holding pens where they confronted Hadriana; even though Fenris himself had done nothing to harm her in any way, the sight of a formidable, angry elf, covered in blood and wielding a ridiculously large sword that cut his way through slavers like a knife through butter was enough to make the meek and timid girl shy away in fear. Remembering this, Fenris halted his advance and put his hands up in submission, not wanting to disrupt the preparation of the meal.

"Has any wine been brought up for dinner?" He asked as gently as he could, though he thoroughly wanted to chastise the girl for acting as if he was some monster. He didn't want to think that he might have been the same way once.

"No, Master Fenris." Her voice was weak, her gaze directed at a fixed point on the floor just in front of her feet. It was obvious that the slave mentality would never leave her, but Fenris found some comfort in the fact that Hawke was no Hadriana and the girl got paid a good wage.

But he had to stop himself from snarling as she called him 'Master' and he felt himself tense. It was bad enough that she still called Hawke 'Mistress' despite her best efforts to break of the habit, but calling him - an ex-slave himself - _that_ was anathema to him. But he merely frowned at the top of her head, took in a deep breath through his nose to calm himself and said "thank you Orana," in a way that came out far more rough than he had intended. It seemed to placate her, however, and she shuffled back to where she was tinkering with spices and dried herbs for the stew.

Without a second glance, Fenris turned and headed past the dwarves and down into the wine cellar, pausing on the bottom step to let his eyes adjust to the dim light given off by the small sconces on the supporting pillars. The drop in temperature from the upper house to the cold cellar sent a shiver all the way up from his feet and he didn't hang about in choosing a few bottles of a fine blended red to go with the dark meat that would be served that night. With a bottle under each arm and one in each hand, he made his way back up the stairs to see Hawke waiting for him in the kitchen.

She looked far more comfortable in her usual home attire, the smell of clean fabric and her soap drifted to him as she smiled and took the bottles from under his arms wordlessly. He followed her towards the dining room, mesmerized by the curve of her waist and the sway of her hips as she silently sauntered ahead of him. She knew he was watching, and she still couldn't help but let a self-confident smile play on her lips.

The heavy thud of bottles being placed on the expensive table snapped him out of his reverie and he placed his own down beside the ones Hawke had carried. The fireplace in the dining room was already burning nicely and the chill was steadily being driven back like it had been in the main hall, master bedroom and drawing room - the kitchen was always warm thanks to the constantly lit coal stove that Bodahn had rigged to heat a small copper tank of water that held enough water for almost two baths. Hawke had blessed him for his thoughtfulness the day he installed it. Someone still had to carry it to the tub but it was less of a chore when you didn't have to wait for the water to boil.

Hawke hummed to herself as she wandered over to the tall cupboard that contained what she dubbed the 'useful' dining service. It was made of pewter, rather than the fine, thin clay that made up what Hawke called the 'pretty but useless' service which was packed away in a box in the kitchen. She still didn't understand why her mother felt the need to buy it, perhaps she thought she'd be entertaining the Empress of Orlais at some point in the future. The thought brought a smile to her lips but she kept on humming as she pulled out four pewter plates and wove her fingers around the stems of four ornate pewter goblets before turning and closing the door to the cupboard with her heel.

In the mean time, Fenris had forced himself to concentrate on something other than Hawke's humming and somewhat captivating backside; he had decided to open one of the bottles of wine. Thankfully, the corkscrew from the last dinner Hawke had held (a boisterous affair which ended in Isabela dancing on the table and Bodahn swearing for days as he tried to get the marks out the polished wooden surface) was still laying on a shelf next to a copy of 'Hard in Hightown' that Varric had given her. He had given Fenris a copy too and he earnestly tried to read it, but even Hawke had given it up as a lost cause so Fenris stood no chance. Neither would tell the dwarf however, they had mutually agreed on that.

At the sound of the soft 'pop' of a cork being removed, Hawke wandered over and plunked two of the four goblets on the table near where Fenris was stood before wandering off to lay the table. She had decided that Fenris and Donnic would sit one side, while herself and Aveline would sit the other, opposite their respective partners. She also told herself that this wasn't simply because she enjoyed watching Fenris eat and she most definitely didn't want to play with his feet under the table - that was childish. It was also exactly the reason why she was laying the places out as she was. She also made sure he noticed where she was placing their guests goblets, wordlessly informing him of the seating arrangement for the evening.

Fenris noticed this, of course, and mentally noted to sit directly opposite Hawke that evening as he poured out two generous measures of wine into the pair of goblets on the table. He slid one over to Hawke as she approached and she took it, holding it up to her face before shoving her nose and inhaling the smell of the red wine loudly. This gave exactly the reaction she wanted as Fenris laughed and set down the bottle. Then she took a loud slurp and sloshed it around her mouth before swallowing and staring critically into her goblet with a thoughtful pout.

"Everything to your liking, _Lady Viscount?_ " Fenris teased, his voice laced with sarcasm as he leaned toward her slightly and placed the bottle between them on the table before grabbing his own goblet. He watched her over the rim as she considered this, her eyes flicking from him to the cup, and then at the curtains and then back at the cup.

She hummed to herself thoughtfully before wrinkling her nose and holding the stem of the goblet between her fingers as she gestured it vaguely towards the heavy red velvet curtains that were drawn closed around the windows. "I don't think the colour matches my drapes," she complained, putting on her highest class voice that sounded awfully ridiculous (but dreadfully accurate as to how some of the nobility spoke) and looking down her nose at the wine.

"Well, we could always throw it against the wall so that it matches something." Hawke's feigned air of superiority nearly cracked at Fenris's dry tone and serious demeanour, but she was damned if she was going to be the one that broke first. Instead, she gasped and placed her free hand to her chest in shock, her expression one of utter horror - expect, of course, for the amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Are you _suggesting_ that we waste a perfectly good bottle of wine on my finely painted walls, serah?" She tried, oh she tried, to keep the laughter out of her tone, but she found it increasingly difficult under the heavy gaze of the elf, who was now also beginning to crack. "Unlike _your_ mansion, serah, I don't think there is anything to improve upon."

"I can think of a few things." His response came out a little more growling and serious than he had intended but if Hawke had noticed she didn't show it. If anything, she let an eyebrow creep upwards as she leaned in closer with a small chuckle from low in her throat. At such a sensual sound, Fenris found himself closing the gap between them by placing his hand upon her waist, his fingers interlacing with the soft fabric of her belt while Hawke's own fingers traced their way up the winding pathways of lyrium that wound up his arm.

"And what would those be, I wonder?" Her voiced was hushed and low, a faintly devious smile quirking one side of her lips upwards before she let her eyes drop from Fenris's eyes to trace down the distinctly elven angles of his face. Her gaze rested on his lips for a moment, biting her lower lip at the sudden feeling of heat that wasn't coming from the fire place and faintly amazed that the conversation had turned rather (pleasantly) serious so quickly.

"Well, we could start by -" He was cut off suddenly by the sound of the gong in the foyer being sounded, muffled slightly by the sound of the closed inner door and half-closed dining room door. He blinked slightly before realisation dawned on him and he cleared his thought, pulling away from Hawke but still keeping his hand on her waist. "Ah. Your guests have arrived."

Suddenly very annoyed that Aveline and Donnic were always on time and that the heated tension had fled the room at the sound of the gong, Hawke heaved a heavy sigh and put down her wine goblet at the same time Fenris did. With one hand still resting lightly on his forearm, she rubbed between her eyes with her now free hand and worried the crease that seemed to be getting deeper every day.

"It seems they have," she conceded with another sigh before offering a weak smile to Fenris. "Shall we go and play the gracious hosts? It seems a bit mean to leave them standing out there, and we can hardly expect Bodahn or Orana to greet them while they're busy in the kitchen." Fenris said nothing, merely giving a single nod and letting her go so she could slip past.

He followed closely, smiling faintly to himself as he watched her brush herself down, readjust her tunic and belt before straightening, putting on a welcoming smile before opening the door. _Gracious host indeed._


	3. "We don't do this often enough"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-o-nothing. They're getting longer and going nowhere. I can only apologize in advance.

In front of the inner door to the main hall, Hawke rolled her shoulders and tried to mentally remove any of the tension that she felt _elsewhere_. She didn’t have Aveline and Donnic over as much as she’d like to - actually, she didn’t have any of her companions over as much as she’d like to anymore. Apart from Merrill, who wasn’t always an entirely welcome house guest and was difficult to feed when she stayed for dinner. Back before the ‘Gallows Incident’ Hawke often had her dining room filled with friends and happy chatter…until, someone would inevitably rub someone else up the wrong way and she would have to perform an _Intervention_ before anyone got hurt. But now, her long dining table was hardly ever used, though Bodahn kept it polished to a mirror-finish at all times. The dining room felt a lonely place with just her, or just her and Fenris, so she mostly just cleared a space on her writing desk in the main hall. _This will be nice_ , she told herself, _of course it will be nice. What could possibly go wrong? It’s just a dinner. So why are you nervous, Marian?_

Hawke worried at her bottom lip for a brief moment before reaching out for the door handle and pulling it open with a welcoming smile. Or at least she _hoped_ it was a welcoming smile, and not at all showing the nervousness or slight mania she felt at the moment.

What she saw made her falter slightly, her smile twitching as she blinked at what stood before her. Aveline and Donnic, yes, nothing different or wrong there. But… _ah_. It took her a few seconds to pinpoint the problem, and it lay with Aveline. She wasn’t wearing any armour. At all. In fact, she was wearing a _dress_. With no metal. Probably the first time that Hawke had seen her in anything so feminine since her wedding - and then it was to be expected. _Of course she’s wearing a dress. She’s entitled to wear a dress. Why wouldn’t she be wearing a dress?_ Hawke blinked again, still staring Aveline up and down with her smile drooping slightly in shock. _Because she’s Aveline…_

She hadn’t even noticed the dark scowl growing on the Guard Captain’s face. “ _What_ Hawke?”

Aveline’s exasperated question snapped Hawke out of her dress-induced stupor and she finally looked at the dangerous expression that her friend wore. Her once-welcoming and now bemused smile fled as her jaw worked soundlessly as she looked back down at the dress Aveline wore, finally taking it in. It was a simple affair, a sapphire blue with a modest cut and gold filigree pattern around the neckline and cuffs of the long sleeves. It was very, very pretty. And the small, girly part of Hawke was bitterly jealous - even more so because it fit the Guard Captain like a dream. Hawke lifted a hand, limply pointing at Aveline’s outfit as she mumble the word “dress” in an obvious state of shock.

“Yes, Hawke. This is a dress. I know you don’t come in contact with them often but please stop looking like some country bumpkin who had just been taken to an Orlesian soiree.” Aveline was obviously not impressed.

It seemed to rouse something in Hawke as she flashed her friend a devious smirk. “But Aveline, I didn’t think you wore dresses. It’s so…strange not seeing you wearing several tons of armour.” Easily she slipped back into playful teasing and was overjoyed when the Guard Captain’s face fell into it’s normal expression when she was dealing with Hawke - one of long-suffering boredom and slight irritation. They both loved each other like sisters of course, but Aveline had grown to tolerate Hawke’s own brand of humour.

“Donnic bought it for me, I haven’t had any occasion to wear it and it needed airing…” Aveline stated, matter-of-factly and ignored her husband’s snort at the comment.

“It…suits you well, Aveline.” Came the voice of reason from behind Hawke, a polite smile playing about his lips as he angled himself so that his extending hand couldn’t be seen. He slipped his fingers under Hawke’s belt and gave a sharp tug as an indication that she really should be welcoming her guests and inviting them in rather than keeping them in the chilly foyer as she gawped at Aveline’s attire.

It worked as Hawke swiftly stepped aside and made a grand sweeping gesture with her hand. “Welcome, welcome. Do come in. You must be dreadfully cold.” She smirked at Aveline and laughed at the heavy sigh she received as Aveline flounced past. Well, she didn’t really _flounce_ , but with an outfit like that, the term just seemed to fit somehow.

“Oh grow up, Hawke.” Muttered the Guard Captain on her way past, getting little more than a giggle from the hostess as she made her way over to the fireplace to greet the Mabari who often was a visitor in the barracks to chase new recruits around for a few hours.

“Serah Hawke” Donnic half-bowed to Hawke, politely smiling and handing a bottle of red wine to Hawke, who immediately passed it to Fenris without looking back.

“You have a good eye for fashion, Donnic, I’m surprised. And impressed.” Hawke winked and grinned conspiratorially at him as she wandered over to her friend at the fireplace, leaving the men to discuss Maker only knows.

“All joking aside Aveline, you should wear dresses more often. I never knew you had a figure like that under all that metal plating.” Though her tone was playful, she spoke the truth and Aveline was somewhat speechless at the honestly in Hawke’s eyes as she turned to look at her sceptically. Hawke noticed that her freckled cheeks reddened slightly and she couldn’t help but mentally note that as a victory. She very rarely saw her friend blush and often when she did she was drunk, so getting her to flush when totally sober was a rare feat.

“I…thank you, Hawke. I think. But I really don’t have many occasions to wear them. I thought tonight would be a good night, seeing as we really haven’t had much time for socialisation after what happened…” Aveline tailed off, looking thoughtfully at the fire and recalling the events which happened at the Gallows and what triggered it - the things that haunted every single person that was there.

“Tell me about it,” Hawke sighed, crouching down to balance on the balls of her feet as she fussed over her dog absentmindedly. “Between me being Viscount, you being Guard Captain and…everything in between, it leaves very time for anything else.” She kissed her dog on the top of his head before she stood up again, tugging her clothes back down from where they had hitched up as she moved. “But you might have a reason to wear that again soon.” She let it hang with an air of mystery, a wry smile playing about her lips.

“I don’t like that look, Hawke, what are you planning?” Aveline narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms and leaning on one hip as she regarded her friend with deep suspicion. Marian Hawke; Ferelden refugee, survivor of the Blight, Deep Roads explorer, killer of Qunari, Champion of Kirkwall, Viscount - her best friend for years and the cause of many of her headaches. She could read her like a book, and right now the pages said she was planning to spring something that would probably give her _yet another_ headache. Aveline had once remarked that Hawke put loyalty to the test, but she rarely doubted her. But that didn’t mean she had to like everything her friend did.

“I’ll…tell you over dinner.” Hawke shrugged nonchalantly, a distant smile on her face. She was, most certainly, up to mischief. But before Aveline could question further, Bodahn made his way into the hall and cleared his throat.

“Ahem, dinner is ready to be served Messeres, if you’d like to be seated.”

Hawke drifted over to Fenris’s side, locking her arm around his automatically. Fenris didn’t resist the motion, though he did glance at her and wonder at the faraway expression on her face, and the fact that she moved as if she were on autopilot. He led her over to the table and broke away from her grip to pull out her chair before doing the same for Aveline, who knew the drill that she was to sit next to Hawke when Fenris was present. Donnic sat opposite his wife as Fenris retrieved the two half-drunk goblets and bottle from the end of the table before pouring out a generous measure for the guests before placing Hawke’s and his own goblets down and topping them up and sitting down himself.

Orana, who had been watching nervously from the doorway as she waited for everyone to be seated before carrying the tray holding four steaming bowls of game stew to the table. She was followed diligently by Sandal, who was carrying the cutlery. The small slip of an elf placed the food down silently, taking the utensils from the dwarf and setting them down too before bowing and rapidly retreating away to the kitchens.

Hawke sighed inwardly as she watched the blond girl move smoothly (but obviously nervously) about the table before thanking her withdrawing back. _All these years and she still has the mentality of a slave_ , she thought with another inward sigh, _but at least she seems happy enough. I’ve even caught her laughing with Bodahn before._

Though the meal began in companionable silence, the men soon fell into what Hawke decided to be nonsensical chatter about swords or…something. She wasn’t really listening. She are quietly and methodically, almost mechanical in her movements as she made her way from the outside of her bowl inward. Fenris was used to it by now, the way Hawke often zoned out while eating, but Aveline was stealing confused glances at her friend between mouthfuls.

Eventually, she had had enough. “Is something the matter, Hawke?” she asked, quietly. This roused Hawke and she paused, spoon halfway to her mouth to look at Aveline blankly.

“Hmm?” She blinked as she replayed the question in her head. “Oh, no. Not at all. I’m just…thinking.”

“Dare I ask what about?” There was a sigh in Aveline’s voice as she asked, resuming eating at Hawke’s rather vague reply.

“Balls, Aveline,” Hawke stated flatly, shrugging.

“…what?” It was now Aveline’s turn for vacant expressions as she was completely blindsided by that reply. She had no idea what the woman was going on about but she was pretty sure she wouldn’t like the answer.

“The Viscount’s annual Satinalia ball. The Seneschal dropped that wonderful bombshell on me this afternoon just before he fled. Coward.”

“Considering where your knife ended up, I would actually say that beating a hasty retreat was a wise move.” Fenris interjected, a single eyebrow arching at Hawke as he watched her over the rim of his pewter goblet.

“Well yes, point made, but still.” Hawke merely shrugged, her tone flat.

“Wait, _where_ did your knife end up, exactly?” Aveline was aghast at this new revelation, setting her spoon back into her now-empty bowl.

“Stuck in the door roughly at the same height of the Seneschal’s head,” replied Fenris, casually reaching across to pick up Aveline’s bowl and place it on the tray that Orana had brought the food in on along with Donnic’s and his own. Hawke was the only one who hadn’t finished but considering the fact she had placed her spoon down on the table and had pushed her bowl away from her slightly, Fenris figured she had finished and put it on the tray as well.

“ _Hawke_ ” it came out as a long and exasperated sigh as Aveline rubbed one of her temples, watching Hawke shrugged again and picked up her wine.

“Oh, come on Aveline, the guy needs the ever-loving shit scared out of him. I’d do it myself but Maker knows my reputation’s not the greatest as it is. I’ve already upset half of Hightown and it’s very likely I’m going to upset the other half fairly soon.”

“He’s…just doing his job, Hawke. And I honestly cannot believe you just made me stand up for the maggot.” The Guard Captain suddenly was ablaze with hatred for the man; suddenly, all those hours of paperwork and talk of _parade armour_ rose up to meet her; suddenly…she agreed with Hawke. “You’re right. He does need scaring, but Maker only knows how that would be possible. I mean he vanished when the Qunari took the Keep. I never did work out where he went.”

“I think he barricaded himself into his office and then hid in the filing cupboard myself,” joked Hawke, giggling at the mental image of Seneschal Bran folded in half, cowering in his cupboard while also wondering how, yet again, the conversation had turned from what it had started out as. And on such little alcohol too; perhaps that’s what overwork does to a person, makes their mind bounce around like a hyperactive child having a sugar rush.

“But what of this ball, Hawke?” And yet again the conversation changed as Donnic spoke up, a somewhat rare occurrence during these get-togethers. Hawke was still giggling, but the question seemed to pop her joyous bubble like a pin and she visibly deflated.

“Ah, yes. It’s a…fancy do. Dresses, dancing and stuff…you know…snobby shit. The Keep will be filled with nobility and people of importance.” Hawke wrinkled her nose in disgust, the thought of all those puffed up prats from Hightown and the surrounding areas. _No one of real importance,_ she added mentally, _just people who like to think they are important because they have a lot of money._

“I remember those, I went to the first two, then decided to stop. Caused a stink with the Seneschal, but he got over it.” Aveline sounded amused, Hawke was not. She fixed the Guard Captain with a flat look before a familiar, devious spark lit up her eyes like a torch.

“I want you to be there, Guard Captain,” Hawke smirked as Aveline’s face dropped, “on official business, of course. The ball will be host to ‘important’ people. And there will be few people there more important than ‘Captain of the Kirkwall Guard’, will there?” As her friend’s face began to turn red with indignation, Hawke smiled and held up a hand to placate her in the way that only Hawke (and perhaps Donnic) could. “There will be a lot of guards there, Aveline. And a lot of alcohol. It would only take one or two guests to persuade a guard to let his…er, _guard_ down before they’re all at it. I was just thinking that with their Captain there, there would be no _shenanigans_.”

This seemed to work, as the look of growing rage in Aveline’s face died off suddenly and she was obviously thinking it through. A brief, contemplative, but companionable silence fell again as Orana entered the room, picked up the tray with the empty bowls and left, swerving to avoid Bodahn carrying another tray. On this one there was dessert, the apple tart that Fenris had seen the dwarves preparing earlier. The sweet smell drifted over the room, the hint of spices and hidden depths making all four long to sample the first proper dessert they had had since Hawke’s ‘surprise’ birthday party.

Bodahn, putting on his finest airs fitting of the most trained butler, placed each dish carefully down so that the point of the slices were facing towards who it was placed in front along with it’s spoon before he deposited two small jugs of fresh, thick cream in the center of the table.

“I suppose you’re right, Hawke. But I have to wonder why so many guards are needed.” Aveline conceded as she picked up her spoon, narrowed eyes on Hawke.

But it was Fenris that replied, his tone serious and grave, his face grim. “Death threats,” he grumbled, looking over the table at Hawke, who was now looking somewhat sheepish.

“What?! Why wasn’t I informed of this? How often does this occur?”

“She gets at least two or three a week. Most are just barely concealed warnings, some are obviously from people who feel jilted. The rest, however -”

“Yes yes, alright.” Hawke butted in, waving her spoon in the air as if to wave away the conversation. “It’s mostly just people angry about losing their loved ones at the Gallows. There’s the occasional mention of Antivan Crows but a lot are just hot air. Besides, it’s not as if we haven’t dealt with them before. Remember before the Chateau Haine debacle, when we first met that blighted Qunari agent?” She was determined not to appear flustered by the conversation and she turned her attention to eating her dessert, trying to remember why she had held this dinner in the first place.

“I also get three or four _marriage_ proposals, or offers of arranging a meeting with someone nobleman-slash-woman’s son. They go the same way as the threats, all the same to me.” She said, noncommittally shrugging as if to end the conversation. It worked, for the most part, though she could tell that Aveline was silently fuming she hadn’t been told as she observed her obliquely.

“But while we are on the subject of official business,” she began, her tone lighter at the attempt to change the subject before she shovelled a spoonful of apple tart and cream into her mouth. “Sebastian sends his regards. On _unofficial_ business, he’s sent me a letter addressed to Bethany inside the one he sent to me privately.” Gleefully spilling the gossip, she wriggled in her seat before attacking her dessert again. Sebastian always send a private letter to her home as well as an official one to her office, and the private one was always more frank and truthful than the official as it wasn’t written in the language of politics. But the letter addressed to Bethany was a surprise - Hawke had a feeling they had been interested in each other since they met, but even she wasn’t aware that Sebastian had taken to visiting the youngest Hawke sibling in the Gallows frequently. And the way her sister got all dreamy-eyed and wistful when he came up in conversation…The letter just made Hawke all the more gleeful that her sister might actually have someone seriously interested in her.

Aveline, however, punctured her daydreaming bubble by completely ignoring Hawke’s gossip. “What is Starkhaven’s situation to this current mage problem?” She sounded interested, but it wasn’t what Hawke wanted to talk about. She should have known better really.

“Bad,” she sighed, pushing what was left of her pudding around it’s dish instead of eating it. “Some of the mages turned to blood magic, only they…” she trailed off, biting her lip nervously and staring at the polished tabletop like a child being forced to tell a parent what a friend did.

“What, Hawke?”

“They murdered a little boy, Aveline.” Her voice was small all of a sudden, weak and slightly shaky. She shook her head mournfully, squeezing her eyes shut as she continued. “They killed him and bled him to fuel their…sick acts. The other mages only found them because they had taken another boy that screamed his lungs out.”

Fenris winced, not knowing that detail and suddenly as off his dessert as Hawke was. He had seen Danarius do it before, but the boy was a slave child and chattel - the only children that the Starkhaven mages could have gotten their hands on were other mages, younglings fresh from their mother’s skirts. The depravity of some mages knew no bounds - of this he was well aware. But he also knew that the truth of it hurt Hawke, her family holding two mages both strong of will and mind as it did. He wished now that he wasn’t sitting opposite her, as he could not simply reach over and take her hand as he longed to do.

“Bastards,” growled Aveline eventually, after the silence had gone on long enough. “Between blood mages and damned slavers running amok, the whole of Thedas seems to be going mad.”

“Slavers?” Hawke and Fenris asked at once, both of them pinning Aveline with an intense stare that made her feel like squirming in her seat for bringing it up. Though she was no coward, she had seen how the warrior and the rogue fought on the battlefield many times, how they complimented each other in ways she had never seen before. They were an unstoppable unit, deadly enough on their own, but together they were a force of nature, one that had grown stronger as their relationship had deepened. She also knew both of them shared views on many things, slavery being the most prominent - what with Fenris having lived most of his life in it, and Hawke abhorring it, not only for it being a despicable act, but also because of what it had done to him. And now she felt as if she had been pinned by Hawke’s own daggers to the chair simply by the weight of their stares alone; she had a small taste of the fear that any who crossed them felt.

But she was damned if she was going to show it.

“I thought we had driven them all out of Kirkwall and the surrounding areas, but it turns out they’ve been operating from under our very noses.” She frowned at the thought of slavers taking the opportunity to strike while their back was turned but didn’t take too long to pause, as Fenris and Hawke were still drilling holes into her and Donnic was being very unforthcoming with information (probably because he didn’t want them to be burning holes in _him_ instead). “They are operating out of the Wounded Coast, down the coast slightly. Just past the wreck of the ‘Old Azure’. One of the scouting ships spotted them a week back, we’re planning a raid tomorrow.”

Hawke frowned, clearly in thought as she tapped her spoon against her lips before absentmindedly pushing it back into her pudding as she considered something. “The Seneschal wants me to meet with some noble women tomorrow and talk about this ball thing…” she pondered, mostly to herself. “But you know what? I’m not going. How long has it been, Fenris, since we saw anything remotely resembling a fight?”

“Hawke, no.” Aveline didn’t let Fenris answer, “I cannot let the Viscount shirk her duties to traipse along the Wounded Coast for what could be an insignificant number of slavers.”

“Aveline, I am not made of glass,” Hawke repeated Fenris’s own remark in chiding but not angry tones. “I am not some helpless bureaucrat that can’t defend myself. I was the Champion before I was the Viscount. I have not had a day off since…since…since the sodding day I took office. I would much prefer to be out actually protecting the citizens of this city-state than planning a _ball_ for the privileged few.”

“Could I say anything that might make you reconsider?” Though Aveline really didn’t seem that keen on finding that ‘anything’.

“Nope. You up for a bit of slaver-scum hunting, Fenris?”

“Always Hawke, always.”

“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow morning, we head out to the Wounded Coast to kill us some slavers. Sounds like a plan. So, shall I meet you on the steps to the Viscount’s Way at ninth bell?”

“Very well Hawke, if you insist. Though to be honest, I don’t think it _will_ be an insignificant number, and your help will probably be greatly needed.” Aveline really did sound relieved, and she was rather grateful the topic had arisen - with both Hawke and Fenris there, the amount of guard deaths would hopefully be kept at a minimum.

* * *

Dessert was finished in companionable silence but general chatter was picked up as they finished a bottle of wine at the table. It was comfortable talk, talk of nothing and everything. Talk from which Hawke could catch up on what had been happening with her companions during her forced absence. She learned that Isabela was back from ‘testing out her ship’ - the one that Hawke had granted her. There had been several impounded ships in the docks just sitting there, ships where the captains had been thrown in jail, been killed or simply vanished. One of which happened to be Castillion’s, still there after he was killed for being a slaver. While Isabela was slightly reluctant at first, when Hawke explained that she wasn’t stealing it from a dead man but taking it away from the state, she quickly changed her tune. Predictably. Hawke had idly commented that she should ask Isabela who the best tailors for dresses in Kirkwall were, followed by a rather confused discussion how exactly she knew all the clothiers when she seemed to wear so little.

Varric was suspiciously quiet, by all accounts. He was busy helping rebuild the Hanged Man, as the looters had really done a number on it during the ‘Gallows Incident’. A fire had been set, this Hawke was aware of, what she wasn’t aware of was the fact that some of the roof collapsed completely because the fire had weakened the supporting beams. She had signed the tavern over to the younger Tethras brother because the deeds had arrived on her desk one morning stating that the owner had been killed during the fighting. She knew Varric had been itching to get his hands on it for years, so Hawke had no hesitation in naming him the new owner. He had, according to Donnic, thrown himself into the task and the tavern was now almost completely back to the way it was before: a filthy pit where the whiskey was weak and tasted like rat droppings, the ale was strong and the wine tasted like paint stripper. Though Hawke couldn’t help but feel as if the dwarf had been avoiding her, and she didn’t understand why. To her surprise, Aveline agreed to bringing him along for ranged support on their outing in the morning.

Aveline wasn’t surprised to learn of Merrill’s attempt at learning to sing from Orana, she wasn’t very amused either. Apparently the Dalish elf had been trying to ‘help out’ in the alienage and only succeeded in making things worse. Exactly how much worse was unknown to any outside the alienage, and seeing as the elves had becoming increasingly insular of late, getting information was difficult. Even Fenris said that he was receiving very dirty looks and rude remarks they thought he couldn’t hear simply because he refused to be ‘one of them’. When Hawke questioned this, he went on to explain that elves who didn’t live in the alienage were regarded as ‘flat ears’; even more anathema to alienage culture was relationships with humans. Then he promptly had to comfort a subtly panicking Hawke, making soothing noises about how he didn’t care and how he viewed their way of life as toxic and unsustainable in the long run.

With the final bottle being emptied into the goblets, the four retired to the cosy drawing room where Merrill had been ‘singing’ earlier that afternoon. They chatted about nothing, everything that was unimportant and frivolous - Hawke and Aveline having a heated discussion about what colour would be appropriate for a Viscount to wear to a ball. Hawke was adamant on red, but Aveline suggested a dark blue much like her own dress. They agreed to disagree and Aveline drifted over to where her husband and Fenris watched on amused and bemused.

This left Hawke alone by the fireplace and Fenris frowned when he saw a familiar expression on Hawke’s face that worried him slightly. He recognised the tightness around her eyes and lips that showed that while she tried to appear uncaring, there was an internal struggle going on. While it might have fooled others, he knew her far too well and could read her like a book. The fact she was beginning to curl her arms around her didn’t help her cause at all either. Silently he padded over to her, his fingers reaching out as he neared and brushed gently against her waist. Gently he slid his arms around her and pulled himself forward into a loose embrace, his cheek brushing against her own as he watched the dancing fire like she did. Hawke’s arms wrapped over his across her stomach and she leaned into him, just enjoying the quiet moment.

“What’s wrong, Hawke?” It was barely there, a murmur not meant for anyone’s ears but hers. Neither of them took their eyes off the fire but Fenris squeezed Hawke’s sides briefly in reassurance. She felt so small in his arms, so fragile. If he hadn’t seen her fight then he would have been sure she could have been felled with a feather. But he also knew her position was weighing heavy on her, if only she would let him take up some of the burden by _telling_ him things instead of bottling everything up.

“Fenris…you,” her voice sounded as small as she felt in his arms and he felt her shift slightly as she looked sideways at him. “You really don’t have to come with me to the ball you know. I mean, I’d love you to be there and everything but if it makes you feel uncomfortable…” she trailed off, not trusting herself to continue. Her eyes had turned to darting around the tiles on the floor and she was biting her lip to silence herself.

“Hawke,” Fenris sighed, resting his forehead against the side of her head so that he could speak directly into her ear. “I have said I will go. I will go for _you_ , because _you_ want me there. I walked into the Fade with you, I faced dragons with you because _you_ wanted me there. I will not abandon you, Marian, no matter the challenge.”

His breath on her ear, his words, his rare usage of her given name, they all caused Hawke to relax into his arms as let one hand lift to trace his cheek down to his jaw as she stared into the fire - not trusting herself to look into his eyes without breaking into alcohol-influenced tears. Instead, she took in a shaky breath and let it out in a barely audible whisper. “Thank you.”

Aveline and Donnic watched in respectful silence, a faint smile on both of their faces. They could see lips moving, but no words reached them and they were grateful for that. Donnic wove his fingers with those of his wife as he watched a haze of contentment fall over Hawke and Fenris, noticing they swayed together slightly, as if there was music in the air. “They look…” his voice low and only for Aveline’s ears, he paused as he tried to find the right words, eventually falling back on simplicity, “very happy.”

“They deserve to be. Maker knows they’ve both had enough troubles in their lives so far.” Aveline sighed, looking at her husband with a reserved smile. “But I fear we need to disturb them, it’s getting late, that was tenth bell.” Donnic merely nodded, but he’d let his wife do the disturbing.

Aveline stepped forward, clearing her throat and catching the attention of both Hawke and Fenris, began speaking and they pulled away from each other and tried to overlook the embarrassment that all three seemed to feel. “We ought to be off, Hawke. Thank you for this evening, we really need to do it more often.”

Hawke grinned, trying to replace her blush with the feeling that she should not be embarrassed by being caught having a gentle moment with the man she loved. Though her stomach did twist itself by the thought of getting lost in Fenris’s arms while they had guests. She blamed the wine.

“Of course, Aveline. And wear more dresses!” She teased as she escorted Aveline and Donnic to the door, mischief glinting in her eyes - though it was somewhat half-hearted. “But really, we don’t seem to get enough time to do what we used to anymore. We need to. Even if it’s just fighting off a ragtag bunch of idiots in the middle of the night.”

“Oh please, no more midnight missions Hawke!”

Laughing and light of spirits, Hawke and Fenris bid their guests a good night and saw them away from the estate safely, their smiles only fading slightly when the door clicked shut.


	4. His and Hers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than the last two, but I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Though it did take me several sittings because it kept making be feel tired!
> 
> I like slightly-drunk sleepy!Hawke. Actually, I like sleepy characters in general, but my head!canon Hawke tends to get all mushy when she's had enough drink. And you know when she's had too much because she gets maudlin. She's drunk just enough here to make her feel warm and fuzzy and slightly loose. And tired.
> 
> And also thank you, yes you, dear reader, for putting up with my poor spelling, grammatical problems and wandering head. Even if you're a silent reader, I am very grateful that you haven't yet pressed the 'back' button.

The door clicked shut, blocking out the darkness of Hightown and removing the chill draught that whistled in whenever it was opened. Fenris watched as Hawke sighed heavily, rested her forehead against the door…and started to laugh. It was small at first and he saw it before he heard it, a faint tinkle that caused her shoulders to shake. Then it grew louder as Hawke opened her mouth and giggled, balling up her fists before shoving one into her mouth and biting her knuckles. This movement stifled the noise, but not by much as it grew in intensity and volume until Hawke was almost doubled over with mirth. Fenris was utterly bemused by the sight and merely stood, dumbstruck, as she gasped for air between bouts of laughter.

Eventually, Hawke had composed herself enough to straighten even when small attacks of giggling punctuated what she had hoped was a serious face. And she couldn’t help but cackle when she saw the blank look on Fenris’s face. He blinked at her, perplexed and too stunned to even ask what she was laughing at. Instead, he merely arched an eyebrow in questioning.

“Aveline in a dress!” Hawke exclaimed, exploding with laughter again; Fenris’s other eyebrow raised to meet it’s companion. “I honestly never expected that, though perhaps I should have, and then it wouldn’t have been half as surprising.”

She was rambling but her voice was slow and ponderous, as if she wasn’t speaking to him, but the world in general. Or maybe to herself. Fenris noticed the way she slightly over-pronounced her words and slurred so slightly that less keen ears wouldn’t notice. The wine was slowly taking hold. Or rather, it had taken hold a few minutes ago but now was getting into full swing. Hawke was a philosophical drunk, though most of her philosophies didn’t make sense to anyone but her. He smiled in recognition and guided Hawke gently back into the main hall as she lost herself in the warm haze of wine-induced thought.

Her left her to wander over to her Mabari and plop down cross-legged on the soft rug beside him so that he could finally close the inner door for the night, turning the heavy brass key in the lock and leaving it there so that it made it harder to pick. He heard Hawke sigh dreamily as he turned back in time to see her wrap her arms around the dog’s thick neck and pull him close so she could bury her head into his fur. On his part, the dog looked at Fenris with what could only be described as a silent plea for help. Fenris merely shrugged, unable to help even if he wanted to.

“Aveline looked so pretty, didn’t she puppy?” She cooed in a babying voice to her dog, who she had now released from her death-grip. He tilted his head in thought for a moment before agreeing with a gruff ‘woof’ and thumping his stumpy tail hard on the rug. With another wistful sigh, Hawke leaned back on her hands and stared into the fire with a serene smile on her face. Fenris merely leaned back against the door and enjoyed the contrast between the cold seeping through the wood to the warm glow coming from the roaring hearth with his eyes closed.

“Red,” finally, Hawke broke the silence, “or blue?” She was leaning further back now, her palms pressed into the cool tiles and her legs stretched out as far as she could before the heat of the flames stopped her. She was staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“Fenris,” she crooned his name, pulling him out of his idle dream and scattering it before he could figure out what it was. He cracked an eye open and arched a brow, noting that she wasn’t looking at him and that her hair masked any chance of her seeing from the corner of her eye.

“What about them, Hawke?” Proving that he had been listening, somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Dresses. What colour should I wear? Aveline was insistent on blue but I much prefer red. A nice deep scarlet, preferably with something gold and filigree. Or maybe black lace.”

Hawke in a dress. The very thought of her in something as figure-enhancing as Aveline was wearing that evening made his pulse spike. He had never seen her in a dress before. A skirt, yes, leggings, yes - and her custom-made, imported Ferelden armour was very flattering. But a dress. Suddenly, the dread he felt about escorting her to this ball dimmed considerably. And though he longed to push her down the ‘red with black lace’ path, he chose to answer more diplomatically. Though he had to wonder how he managed to keep his composure, what with the thoughts that were running through his head. “I’m sure that, whatever you choose, the nobles will either be clambering to copy it, or mocking it. Possibly both.”

Hawke recognised the teasing and snorted in a very ignoble way. “Quite true. Still, I think it’s time that I reminded the _Orliesian_ nobility that I’m both female and do not smell of dog.” She giggled again, and eyed Fenris slyly when he chuckled.

“Of course, I’ll have to have something custom made for you. You’re far too…” she wrinkled her nose and scrunched up her mouth in thought as she considered his lanky frame but muscular build. _Too tall, too broad…and too damn handsome. Perhaps I should make him go in nothing but his leggings._ The thought made her blush slightly and she looked back into the dancing flames to focus her thoughts. “Too unique in stature to buy from a stall.”

 _What does that mean?_ Puzzled Fenris, a sardonic brow arching as he folded his arms. “Hawke?” It was a drawn-out, exasperated sigh, one he tended to use when she was being far too cryptic - even for his sharp mind.

“We have to _match_ , Fenris.” She insisted, looking back at him, eyes twinkling in the firelight. She giggled when she saw his expression turn long-suffering and slightly grim. “How _else_ would any puffed up prat know that we’re together? They don’t go by words alone, they have to be shown. At least being a matching pair will keep some of the more _skittish_ ones at bay.” She suddenly sounded tired, an unspoken sigh in her voice as her head lolled backwards as she gazed at the ceiling but didn’t really see it. “The more persistent ones will keep on coming, however. So very tempted to have a dress made with a place for a hidden knife.”

“Do they bother you?” Fenris had relaxed again, drawing a leg up and leaning on the door. His gaze was half-lidded and remained on Hawke, watching every small move she made and every minute expression that crossed her face. She was easy for him to read most times, but when she had been drinking it was a lot easier. Every thought she had showed on her face. He watched the micro-expressions as they passed over her face; from annoyed, to passive, to angry, to sly, before they finally rested on mild irritation. She shrugged as best she could while still maintaining her position on the floor.

“They’re…like flies around a dog’s nose. You can ignore them for so long, occasionally snorting or swatting them away, but sooner or later you have to snap at them just to get them to bugger off.”

It was an interesting analogy and Fenris found himself considering it for a while. It didn’t quite work when deconstructed, but he forgave her for that, she wasn’t exactly completely sober. And neither was he, if he was completely honest - though he was more sober than Hawke.

He watched her with a crooked, amused smile as she yawned loudly and swayed slightly, her eyes bleary and obviously tired. For a moment, her eyes fluttered closed and she appeared to drift off, her palms slowly sliding backwards until Fenris was sure she would fall. Then she jerked herself awake and yawned again, though it seemed she wasn’t completely aware she was doing it.

Beside her, Hawke’s Mabari had already fallen asleep and from the lack of light coming under the door that lead to the kitchens, the servants had retired as well. For a moment, he paused and enjoyed the silence again, just him, Hawke and the crackle of the fire as it began to dwindle. Then he himself had to stifle a yawn and he pushed himself away from the door. Grabbing the candle snuffer from the mantle, he extinguished most of the candles in the main hall, checking around the doors to both the dining room and study to find them already in darkness. He left only the essential lanterns lit before returning the snuffer to it’s place and kneeling before Hawke, who was beginning to drift again.

She felt a soft touch on her arm and opened her half-lidded eyes to gaze into Fenris’s mossy green ones. She gave him a sleepy smile. “Hello Fenris,” she said, slightly breathily from the haze of wine and weariness. She leaned to one side and lifted a hand off the cool tiles, letting her fingers trail over his cheek and down his jaw with a dreamy smile on her face. She wasn’t entirely certain if she was dreaming or not.

“Come Hawke, it’s late.” Fenris took hold of her hand before it fell away and stood, pulling her arm gently to encourage her to follow. She grumbled slightly but she was far too tired to resist, and she let him pull her up with little effort.

She leaned heavily into him as they climbed the staircase and angled towards the bedroom, a dreamy smile still tugging at her lips though Fenris wasn’t sure she was completely awake. She didn’t seem to notice when he pushed her away and made sure she was standing upright (even if she was leaning to and fro like an ear of wheat in a faint breeze). She seemed, however, to hear the lock on the bedroom door click as she frowned and turned to look at Fenris with a faintly confused expression. She blinked slowly as he turned to face her before she padded over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close.

He heard her hum into his shoulder, felt the soft vibration of it against his chest as she pressed into him and he found himself leaning his head to her own. He inhaled the sweet smell of her hair, a hint of soap, a hint of wine - and her. Just _her_. Suddenly, he didn’t want to let go for fear of never getting her back. Foolish notions, little fears that ran away with him and ended up terrifying him. He could not bear to lose her, not after everything. It was irrational, but it flared every now and then and he was defenceless to it. He just had to go along with it, until Hawke broke him out of it.

And break him out of it she did, as he noticed her grip getting gradually weaker.

Then she snored against his shoulder.

Snapping him out of his unfounded anxiety in an instant, Fenris chuckled and peeled Hawke away from him, rousing her in the process. With a grunt, she frowned at him and shuffled gracelessly towards the bed, where she promptly collapsed in an inelegant heap and promptly fell back asleep.

* * *

A few hours later, Hawke awoke with a start. For a split second, she didn’t know who she was, where she was or to whom the strangely marked arm that draped over her waist belonged to. Then she did a mental check. _Marian Hawke; home; bed; Fenris._ That last thought put a bashful smile on her face, though there was no one to see it. She didn’t completely know why the thought of waking up with Fenris beside her was strange, perhaps it was because she still half expected him to run again. Perhaps it was because he used to disappear back to his mansion in the middle of the night to sleep alone. Or perhaps she still didn’t believe she had found someone like him amidst the chaos and confusion in her life - that this was all a Fade-dream and she would wake up back in Lothering left wanting.

She could feel his steady breathing behind her, the gentle breaths on her neck, the way his arm folded over her side and the way his hand clutched at her possessively. Only then did she realise that she wasn’t naked. She paused, wiggling her toes against the warm blanket and confirming that she had no shoes on. She also just had her simple shirt and skirt on, no jumper or belt - though she couldn’t remember taking them off. The last thing she remembered was hugging Fenris.

 _Too much wine_ , she figured, letting out a sleepy but silent sigh through her nose. Frowning, she twisted in place, moving gently and slightly so she could look over her shoulder without disturbing Fenris’s sleep. With a bit of careful peering, she caught a glimpse of the window through the curtains of the bed and saw nothing but darkness outside. The faint hint of moonlight, a few dotted stars, and the growing tendrils of frost on the outside of the window pane suggested it was early morning still - though Hawke didn’t dare guess at the hour.

She shifted again, slipping back into the same position as she had been when she woke up. Her hand gently grazed down Fenris’s forearm until she found his hand, then she entwined her fingers with his and smiled to herself when he caged his own fingers around hers in his sleep. There was what she recognised as a contented grunt from the elf behind her and she was happy that she hadn’t woken him at all. It was a difficult feat, what with him being a light sleeper - but he was slipping deeper and deeper into restful sleep as of late, pleasing Hawke immensely. His insomnia was somewhat tiresome at times.

But as much as she disliked Fenris’s insomnia, she herself tended to suffer from it in random bouts. She was tired. Her body told her to sleep. She wanted to sleep, content in the knowledge that Fenris wasn’t going anywhere. But somehow, a few moments after closing her eyes, they would flutter open again. She stared tiredly at the dwindling fire and pulled the blanket further over them both, trying to smother the chill.

Behind her, Fenris stirred. She felt his fingers flex against hers, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he brushed the tip of his nose against the back of her neck. There was a low rumble and a light snort before he muttered something faint that Hawke didn’t catch. She had noticed that Fenris had a tendency to talk in his sleep, but she was normally such a heavy sleeper they didn’t bother her. Now, she merely listened with her eyes closed in the hope she might be able to understand what he was breathing into the back of her neck.

It wasn’t in the common tongue. _Damn_. He was muttering in Arcanum, though even if she could understand the language, he was unintelligible. Hawke merely smiled to herself and tried to go back to sleep. Then she heard her name, though it was mixed in with a sentence, she definitely heard a ‘Hawke’ in there. She frowned and listened more closely, ignoring the garbled words and focussing on his tone.

He didn’t sound angry, passionate ( _but_ , she noted, _not in the bedroom sort of way, pity_ ) and determined, yes. But there was no anger there. But she still couldn’t understand, she had asked him on numerous occasions to teach her but he would always deflect and dance away from it. That fact irritated her when he was now muttering something she wanted to understand.

“Mine.” She understood that. Her still-closed eyes flew open at the word, which had come out as a barely imperceptible whisper and she blinked, unseeing at the wall. _What was his?_ She thought, numbly. He was the first to admit he didn’t have many possessions, and those that he did were mostly either given to him by Hawke, or paid for by his cut of the profits.

As if reading her mind, she felt his grip tighten around her hand as he moved to pull her closer in a possessive embrace. “Mine,” he growled, like a wolf standing over a kill. The sound of it both set her on edge and gave her a raw thrill that came from neither her head or her heart. He sounded _dangerous_ , and a small, primal part enjoyed it (partly because she knew he _was_ dangerous).

But soon, the pressure of his grip was turning from pleasure to pain. She started to feel the bones creak in her hand; feel the air being squeezed from her lungs as he failed to relent. At first, she merely whimpered, trying to prize her fingers from his with her free hand - when that failed, a faint panic quickened her heartbeat. She needed to wake him. Now.

“Fenris,” it was quiet, at first, hoping to rouse him just enough to pull him from the dream without completely pulling him from slumber. It didn’t work. “Owww, _Fenris,_ ” louder, sharper and she jerked her hand sharply as she began to lose the feeling in her fingers.

“Hmm?” He woke almost immediately, his grip not just loosening, but removing altogether. He seemed dazed, confused, and blinked as if someone had shone a bright light into his eyes. “Hawke?”

“Hey, are you ok?” She was massaging some life back into her hand as she shifted on the bed so she could look at him. He frowned at her before rolling over onto his back to stare at the drape covering the top of the bed in thought. “Were you having a bad dream?”

Her concern made him pause and he desperately raked his brain for evidence to either confirm or deny her question. Nothing, just a fog he couldn’t see through; any dream was scattered into the Fade when he had awoke. His frown deepened. “I…don’t know.”

“Well, you were mumbling something in Arcanum and then you tried to break my hand.” She laughed, shaking the hand in question and making light of the situation. Her face fell back into worry, however, as she saw the drawn and distressed expression that was forming on his face. _So easy to read when tired_ , she noted as she placed her still-aching hand onto his chest to placate him. “Not intentionally, I don’t think. No harm done, see?” As if to emphasis her point, she flexed her hand and let the pads of her fingers weave small circles over the planes of his chest.

“I’m sorry, Hawke.” He didn’t meet her eyes, so propped herself up on her elbow facing him. Despite her fingers protesting, she slid her hand up his chest to cup his chin gently and tilt his face towards her.

“Oh shush.” She pouted teasingly as her hand trailed from his jaw down the main trunk of his throat markings to rest on his collarbone. “We cannot control our sleeping minds, Fenris. If we could, we’d all be mages. And I for one am glad of that.” She knew he agreed, even if he merely studied her face with a slightly wary expression.

“Go back to sleep, Fenris,” she purred softly, folding down onto his side and resting her head on his shoulder while her fingers started to work in small circles over his breastbone. She felt him relax lean his head against hers, the steady sound of his heartbeat beginning to lull her to sleep. She found the rhythm of his breathing and matched it, letting herself fall into sync with him as he fell back to sleep. Blissfully, she smiled to herself, and let sleep claim her with one thought echoing through her head. _His._


	5. Slavers - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have split the following chapter into two parts, my reasoning being that I have a feeling that if I don't it'll either end up pushing 8000 words in one chapter or I'll subconsciously try to condense the action and it's aftermath into fewer words than I'd like. Or both. I'm not keen on either. At least by splitting it, I give myself some wiggle room.
> 
> For reference, Hawke is wearing the Arms of Mac Tir, Boots of the Frozen Wastes and The Queen's Guard. She's wielding Jarvia's Shank and Beraht's Revenge. Fenris wields The Empress's Point. Just FYI :)
> 
> These two talk too much in my head ¬¬
> 
> Also, I fail at Varric.

By eighth bell the next morning, Hawke was in full armour waging war on Seneschal Bran. It was a verbal battle and there was raised voices all around, but no one got injured. Mostly, anyway. Hawke, as always, came away victorious -striding out of the Viscount’s office with a triumphant mile on her face and a noticeable swagger. Bran was suffering from a severe case of wounded pride and was getting a headache from the implications Hawke having a day off would cause in her appointment schedule. Of course, the Ladies that were coming to discuss the ball that very morning would have their noses pushed out of joint. And Hawke loved every second of it.

By ninth bell, Hawke sitting on the steps leading up to the Viscount’s Way, idly regarding the ivy that grew up her estate. She had noticed from the inside how it was starting to encroach on the windows and that she’d have to do something about that. When she had a proper day off, that is, as today was not really one. She was still _working_ , but it was voluntary and promised to be fun. And if there was some coin to be scavenged afterwards then that was just a boon. She blinked a few times, fiddling with the fur accents on her sculpted cuirass as he eyes drifted away from her mansion and towards the bare toes of Fenris’s feet. He was stood on the step below where her own feet rested, glaring at anyone who dared to get too close (to gawp at the Viscount) and generally looking intimidating. He was doing a pretty good job, almost everyone seemed to be giving them a wide birth when they saw the murderous look on the face of the elf that wielded a blade almost as long as he was tall.

But Hawke didn’t notice that. She merely admired the swirling pattern of lyrium on his feet, smiling absently at the three dots before shivering. “I really wish you’d wear boots, Fenris,” she began, rubbing her hands together and trying to keep her bare fingers warm in the cold morning air. “As much as I love your feet, I don’t want your toes dropping off from frostbite.”

She was teasing, of course, she knew she wouldn’t get him into any kind of boot unless it was absolutely necessary. Even so, she couldn’t help but curl her own toes up in discomfort at the thought of being without her fur-lined boots on days that were as cold as they had been recently. And Fenris’s armour seemed as if it was designed for the hotter climes of Tevinter and Seheron, though he would never openly say. She had convinced him to accept a hooded, waxed cloak she bought him for the wet weather Kirkwall suffered from frequently, but the fur-lined cloak he had refused.

“Hawke,” a sigh was heavy in his voice as he took a break from glowering at passers-by to look down at Hawke. “We have already been through this.”

Still gazing at his feet, Hawke giggled at his long-suffering tone before looking up at him with a knowing half-smile. “I know, Fenris. Maker, the look on your face when I first brought it up still makes me giggle.” She couldn’t help but giggle again when his face fell into a flat look at the subject. “I _will_ get you into some kind of footwear for the ball though, you can’t dance barefoot. It’ll hurt when I accidentally stand on your toes otherwise.”

“I though you said you could dance?” While not overly impressed by the fact that he would be made to wear shoes to this infernal ball he had agreed to attend with Hawke, he tried to divert the conversation away from the subject.

“I…” she paused, frowning in thought as she remembered the last time she had danced. “It’s been a long time. The last time I danced it was, oddly enough, a ball. Though the similarities end there.” She chuckled lightly, though there was a hint of sadness lingering on her laugh. “It was held in a big barn back in Lothering a week before Carver and I left to join the army. I’m not bad at a Remigold, anything else and my dance partner ends up with bruised toes.”

She smiled, joking it off, but Fenris could see something beyond her radiant smile. The memories still hurt. Deep in her eyes, he could see it. She rarely spoke of Lothering unless she was telling him about her memories of being a young child. Things that happened during the Blight hardly ever came up; sometimes he forgot that Hawke herself had been a fugitive once, had to run for her life just as he had. But he knew when the memories were painful; and when she veered away from them, he wouldn’t push her - just as she never pushed him. The desire to comfort her became overwhelming then; to just take her in his arms and kiss away that hurt. He looked away, unable to do anything else in such a conspicuous place with all the nobles watching.

“Do you dance, Fenris?”

She pulled his attention back down to her and he frowned, shaking his head. “No. I have seen many, but…” His voice trailed off and he broke eye contact, staring at the cold stone steps without seeing.

 _Because he was a slave and they were not permitted such frivolities. Because he cannot - could not - stand to be touched. Oh, Fenris._ Hawke’s internal monologue troubled her and she dearly wished, not for the first time, that she had met him sooner. Instead of showing it, however, she leaned towards where he was staring and grinned at him. “I guess I’ll just have to teach you then, won’t I?”

Her enthusiastic smile, beaming up at him like a child before they open their presents, gave him reason to pause. He faltered for a moment, blinking at her dumbly before one side of his mouth ticked up into a lopsided smile. “I think I’d like that.”

Her bright grin widened at his reply and she clapped her hands together with glee. “Wonderful! Though I think I’ll have to get something to protect your toes first, I‘m bound to be rusty and I don‘t want you dancing with a limp.” _Dancing with Fenris; blessed Andraste and merciful Maker above, am I the luckiest girl in Thedas or what?_

Her laugh was light and playful, dancing across the square with a childlike joy that couldn’t help but bring a smile to Fenris’s face despite the conversation turning back to him in shoes. He could see the sense to it, however, and while he wouldn’t be happy about it, he wouldn’t protest about the shoes.

“You see my boots, Fenris?” Hawke asked, seemingly out of the blue as she stretched her legs out towards him to show off the stout fur-lined boots she was wearing. “These were a gift, I forget who from, that I got during my first year in Kirkwall. They are still as good as new. Do you know why?”

Slightly confused at the change in conversation, Fenris replayed it in his memory and frowned at her. She was tilting her feet back and forth, admiring the buckles and craftsmanship of the rugged looking boots. They were not pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but they looked sturdy, strong and _warm_. All of a sudden he noticed the cold stone under his feet, the bite of the icy wind that blew through the square and the ache of his toes when he flexed them. And at that moment, boots didn’t seem wholly unappealing.

“Because they are enchanted. They have incredible cold resistance. They keep my feet all snugly warm and cosy in weather like this.” She stated before he could even begin to formulate a reply, nodding to herself. “What this also means is that in the warmer weather, they are utterly useless unless I’m fighting a mage who does nothing but cast frost spells.” She sighed wistfully as she pulled one leg up and rested the side of her foot on the top of the opposite thigh and poked at the thick sole. “They collect dust for most of the year.”

Hawke grumbled, pushing at the metal of her cuirass so it sat properly before checking the clasps were still tight on it. Then she stood, brushing the dust off the back of her leggings. “Maker’s breath, where is Aveline. It’s too damn cold to be sitting around here waiting for them.” It was spoken mostly to herself and she huffed as she glared at the archway where Aveline and Varric were supposed to be coming through but most decidedly weren’t. Sighing, she held up a finger at Fenris, looking in in the eye. “Wait here.”

He watched mutely at she strode off towards her mansion, keeping a careful eye on her and those near her as she did so. He was quite ready to run to her, should anything happen, but she disappeared into the alcove of the doorway. Her distinctive, loud whistle echoed across the square moments before a bounding heap of brown darted out of the doorway and started bouncing around in circles, barking like mad. Then the Mabari spotted Fenris, whuffled out an excited greeting before trotting towards his mistress, who had appeared again. She scratched the dog behind the ear when he blocked her path, but quickly moved when she pushed him sharply on the shoulder.

“By Andraste’s frilly pink bloomers, I swear that if they don’t arrive within the next half hour, I’m going home and not coming out until tomorrow morning.” Hawke muttered at Fenris as she grew close, folding her arms over her chest and leaning her shoulder against the wall. _I’m sure we can come up with something perfectly entertaining to do instead of killing slavers_. Her mind went off in a bad direction at that and she fought hard to control her expression from turning into the goofy grin of a lovestruck teenager.

She didn’t have to fight it for too long as her eyes quickly fell on the somewhat irritated face of the guard captain being followed by a glum looking dwarf. A glum and _tired_ looking dwarf. “I wonder what the matter with Varric is,” she commented idly, tilting her head in curiosity as she watched them approach.

Fenris followed the line of her gaze and studied the expression on the usually cheerful dwarf’s face. He did indeed look gloomy, and the bags under his eyes are quite visible. He also seemed to be yawning a lot.

Though she wanted to make some sarcastic comment about poor timing, Hawke merely smiled at the pair of them approached. Nodding a greeting to Aveline, she focussed her attention on Varric - who seemed to be pointedly not looking at her. “Varric! Long time no see. What’s the word from Lowtown?” She smiled brightly at him, hoping to at least lift his spirits with some gossip - one broody elf was enough, without having a broody dwarf thrown in.

“There was a riot in the alienage late last night,” Aveline cut in, her face dark. “One of the elves was found to be working with the slavers we’re going to rout. He was behind the disappearance of two elven children and a young Fereldan girl. To say it was a bloodbath is an understatement.”

“And they burned down a row of houses.” Finally, Varric spoke up and sounded utterly disgusted. “Merrill’s included. We have nine families staying at the Hanged Man because of those bastards.”

Hawke hadn’t seen Varric so furious before, he seemed to seethe with controlled rage - all she could do was blink as she processed this information. Then she too, got angry. “And yet again, no one thinks to inform the sodding Viscount. Does no one remember that I’m meant to be the one who runs this place?!” She threw her hands in the air, beginning to pace back and forth along the bottom of the steps, muttering curses to herself - a trait she had picked up from Fenris accidentally. “Casualties?”

“None, thankfully. We need to get out in front of this Hawke.” Aveline sounded cautious, watching Hawke as she prowled back and forth like a caged tiger. Several other people had noticed as well - it was hard to ignore the Lady Viscount when she was armed, armoured and had a murderous expression on her face. It made Aveline slightly nervous. “We should get going.”

“I agree.” If Fenris was angry at the sudden turn of events, he didn’t show it. But his voice snapped Hawke out of her pacing and she nodded, briskly taking the lead and storming off towards the city limits with the rest falling in quietly behind, ignoring the stares from onlookers.

* * *

During the walk to the Wounded Coast, tempers had been smothered and everyone was far more relaxed than they had been. Hawke still led, but her pace was now leisurely as she wandered with Varric and talked animatedly to him as she caught up on all his business and gossip. Fenris followed in companionable silence with Aveline, the Mabari trotting softly at his side. He had once admitted to himself that he found the way Hawke walked mesmerizing; the sway of her hips, the way her hands slightly unfolded on the downward swing, the way she always walked with her head held high. The way she was now, talking enthusiastically with her hands as she was wont to do, he again found himself staring.

“No shit Hawke, I’m telling you, when he was finished he was-”

“Varric! I really don’t need to know this!” Varric pouted slightly as Hawke cut him off, sticking her fingers in her ears as she starting singing a bawdy song about the Empress of Orlais and a thief that stole her ‘jewels’. The dwarf couldn’t help but cackle, however, as her song (badly sung, as usual) only increased in volume when he tried to continue. Even Fenris and Aveline couldn’t help but laugh at her antics.

Thoroughly satisfied that her cunning plan had worked, Hawke removed her fingers from her ears to take in the sound of her companion’s laughter clearly. She had missed this, oh how she had missed this. Just her three best friends (dog notwithstanding) and friendly, playful banter. It always made up for the fact they were walking for miles just to kill people. But hey, sometimes they were rescuing people too. And Hawke dearly hoped that there would be people to rescue today. Especially if they were children.

A comfortable silence fell over the group, the Mabari padding up to his mistress and leaning on her left leg as she walked, making her drift off to one side and causing Varric to have to stop suddenly in case she barged into him. Then Hawke began to push her dog back, growling playfully at him which caused him to bounce ahead. Suddenly, Hawke dashed off to one side, re-appearing just as suddenly with a sizable stick which she seemed to have retrieved from nowhere. To her hound’s delight, she then proceeded to hurl the stick a significant distance down the road.

With Hawke preoccupied, Varric drifted back towards Fenris and Aveline, though he angled himself towards Fenris as he fell into step. “So elf, how’s life treating you?”

Fenris didn’t like the way dwarf asked that. “Why do you want to know?”

“Bristling already? And here I thought we were past all that.” Varric tutted, shaking his in mock disappointment before cackling. “In all seriousness Broody, I want to know how Hawke’s getting on playing Little Miss Official. You know how she is, talks a lot but says little.”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Fenris shrugged, watching her play with her dog oblivious to the conversation behind her. “It is not an easy task, considering the mess.” _Damn that mage and his blighted quest for ‘justice’._ He frowned at the thought, of the act that put Hawke into the Viscount’s seat - of the choice she _had_ to make because _that mage_ made sure there was no middle ground left. It had left Hawke with such a big task.

“No kidding. Getting the Hanged Man into a fit state was hard enough but a whole city? I do not envy her.”

“Was the Hanged Man ever in a fit state to being with?” Aveline, who had been listening with half-hearted interest, drawled in a sceptical tone as she eyed the dwarf. “Only half the taproom had proper flooring, the rest was filth. And don’t get me started on the state of some of the rooms.”

“Madam! That was part of it’s charm.” Varric protested, theatrically putting a hand on his hairy chest in mock affront before cackling. “It’s got a proper wooden floor now though, it had to be done. Most of it collapsed in the fire.”

Silence fell between them once again, punctuated only by the sounds of Hawke’s Mabari barking and her own laughter drifting back to them on the salty breeze. It was such a carefree sound, untainted by stress or the weight of the world. It was how she had laughed before the Deep Roads, and Fenris found himself remembering the different times she had come to his mansion just to speak with him. Just to get to know him. No one else had ever done that - they had either been too intimidated, or never saw past the ears, the markings, the sword. But not Hawke.

“She’s not going to suddenly disappear, elf.” Varric commented idly as he watched Fenris watching Hawke and snickered when the elf suddenly broke out of his reverie to glare at the dwarf.

“What are you talking about?”

“The way you’re staring after our great leader there is like she’s going to vanish in a puff of smoke. But then she _is_ a rogue, and she does vanish in a puff of smoke quite often.”

“And your point is?” Fenris was starting to sound hostile. Varric noticed.

“She invited me to this fancy do they’re having at the Keep. ‘As owner of the Hanged Man and trusted associate of the Viscount.’ she said.” Varric chuckled as Fenris blinked from the rapid change in the conversation and continued on. “I was going to turn her down, but I think I’ll come. If only to see you in finery.” Fenris’s scowl made Varric’s chuckle turn into a full on cackle.

“I will be there in an official capacity, dwarf.” He growled, a dark expression on his face.

“Bullshit,” interrupted Aveline before Varric could respond, her tone mostly serious but with an undercurrent that was teasing. “If you were there merely to protect her, she wouldn’t be planning on hiring some of the best tailors in Kirkwall.”

“Come on Broody, admit it, you might claim to be her bodyguard but really you’re there to scare away any noblemen that get too friendly.” Varric, clearly ignoring the murderous expression growing on Fenris’s face, carried on with his teasing. “Of course, there is only one true way of keeping them away forever.”

“And what would that be?” Fenris snarled, growling under his breath as he dug the points of his gauntlets into his palms to stop him from strangling the irritating dwarf.

“If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not going to be the one to tell you. You’ve got to come to that one on your own.”

“What are you three gossiping about back here?” Hawke’s amused voice floated over as she wandered back towards them, smiling distantly and still carrying a (drool-covered) stick. She stopped a little way ahead, one hand on her hip and head tilted to one side as she tried to figure out the conversation she had caught just the tail end of.

Fenris’s black look vanished as she caught his attention; and when their eyes met, all she did was smile at him brightly. He truly had no clue what Varric was on about, and as he watched Hawke turn and toss the stick at her hound for him to carry, he all but forgot about it. Instead, he merely filed it under ‘things to think on later’ and shrugged it off.

“We’re getting close to the site, Hawke. My guardsmen should be just up this hill, be ready.”

“It’s about time.”

* * *

Just over the hill, tucked under the crest in a substantial outcropping of rocks, was a nervous looking band of Kirkwall’s finest. _Maker help us all_ , thought Hawke as she laid eyes on them. Almost all of them looked nervous; some fidgeted with their armour or weapons, some huddled in pairs or threes chatting intermittently, some - alarmingly - were down on their knees, commending their soul to Andraste. The only calm looking people there were Donnic, Lieutenant Harley and Guardsman Brennan. All of them wore the standard issue plate metal armour of the city Watch, though some of the more senior patrolmen had been allowed to add personal touches - so it was understandable that one person in particular pulled Hawke’s attention.

A single eyebrow raised as she took in the man’s appearance. He was tall in the way a weed would be if it was starved of sunlight, thin and weak with almost translucent skin that hadn’t obviously hadn’t seen the sun for a long time. On top of his head was a clump of messy, greasy, dirty blond hair that stuck out in odd angles and did nothing to help his rather ugly facial features - especially not his massive hooked beak of a nose. Hawke resisted the urge to wrinkle her own nose in intense dislike and succeeded…until she took in what he was wearing. Only then did she allow herself to indulge in her distaste this unknown person. “Who invited the mage?”

“Senior Enchanter Riffen,” Aveline replied, keeping out of earshot of the said mage. “I informed the Circle of the situation and asked them to send a specialist healer. Didn’t realise that we’d get one of the Seniors.”

“I remember him,” Hawke considered the face of the Enchanter sideways, her eyes narrowing while she tried to suppress the natural feeling of mistrust for any mage (save Bethany) that had built in the years since her mother’s death. “He was one of the first that came begging for salvation from the slaughter. Cullen found him cowering in his quarters where he had pushed two beds and a vanity table against the door. How is he going to be useful? Is he going to glare at the slavers until they piss their pants in terror?”

“Apparently, he specialises in ‘green magic and restoration’ - healing, wards and the like. He’s also a Spirit Healer.”

“What?!” Hawke looked aghast at the Guard Captain, an uncertain mix of horror, disgust and disbelief on her face. “You mean we have _another_ abomination? But this time he’s _Circle authorized_?” She was trying to keep her voice down but all she managed to do was turn it into a spiteful-sounding hiss.

“No, Lady Viscount. I am not possessed.” The voice oozed into Hawke’s ears like slime and she felt violated even listening to him speak. He had glided over to her as smoothly as she had guessed he would, and she had to stop herself from recoiling in revulsion - or shoving one of her daggers into his throat.

“Then what _are_ you?”

“A Spirit Healer communes with the peaceful, benign spirits of the Fade but we do not let them enter our bodies. It is a risky thing, of course, and the Templars keep a close watch on us - hence my chaperone,” Riffen gestured at the Templar standing stiffly by a large rock that Hawke hadn’t noticed. “Don’t look so sceptical, Lady Viscount, I am no threat to you. I can barely summon enough fire to light a candle. I am merely here to patch people up.”

Hawke sneered, drawing herself up to try and make herself look big even when the mage towered above her and her companions. Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t hate mages and she understood them very well - when you came from a family containing two of them, it was hard not to pick up a lot of knowledge and understanding. But Kirkwall was a tainted place where the veil was thin, this caused all kinds of bad things to happen. And after meeting insane mage after insane mage, after watching the First Enchanter himself using blood magic to become that… _thing_ , it was hard trusting any mage she didn’t know personally as anything other than a possible threat. Her response was little more than a hiss, weighted with the edge of threatening that made the oily Enchanter’s eyes flicker with hesitation. “For your sake, I hope you are telling me the truth, mage.”

Riffen made a quick, jerky bowing motion and slimed away as if he were sliding along on a trail of grease. He made Aveline’s skin crawl yes, but it didn’t stop her from frowning in thought at Hawke.

“What?” Hawke’s face had fallen into a blank expression as she refused to watch the Enchanter go, though she was slightly puzzled by Aveline’s stare. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I was just checking that you didn’t have white hair and pointed ears, Hawke.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, her shoulder sagging as she shook her head in amusement. “You’re not telling me you actually trust him? But he’s so…slimy and ick.”

“I don’t have to trust or like him, he’s here to do a job and the Templar is here to make sure he does. For what it’s worth, I wish we didn’t need him - but I fear what we may face down the coast won’t be easy.”

“It never is,” Hawke sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Could you not have asked for Bethany at least? Let her see some sunlight and fresh air for a change? At least we know she can throw a fireball or two. And that she’s trustworthy.”

“If you remember correctly, I didn’t know we would have you with us until last night Hawke. I would have asked for your sister had I had prior warning, but Riffen was assigned last week. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Oh, _fine_. We had better get this venture underway anyhow.”


	6. Slavers - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh this gave me so much trouble.  
> Action scenes.  
> I can see them in my head but can I get them down in words? Can I hell.  
> Also, can you tell I had trouble ending this chapter? It kinda meanders to a halt rather pathetically.

Hawke threw her hands with an exasperated sigh and turned swiftly on her heel, leaving Aveline to brief her men on the plan Hawke and herself had come up with. That left Hawke to discuss it with Fenris and Varric.

Varric’s part was easy, but she just knew that Fenris wouldn’t be exactly pleased with the first part of the plan. She hesitated a little way off from where they stood with their backs to her, talking about nothing in particular and gazing off into the distant waters of the Waking Sea. Biting her lip, she ran her eyes up the elegant, curved edge of the blade she had bought for Fenris a few days before the Qunari attack. It wasn’t cheap, but it held significance. It was an enchanted Tevinter blade, ages old already but rarely used, and when she heard there was coming up for sale thanks to the death of it’s collector…well, she just had to buy it. After all these years of use, it was still as sharp and deadly as ever - moreso now than when it was purchased thanks to the two enchantment runes settled securely in it’s hilt. It was beautiful, elegant, deadly. _Much like it’s owner_ , she noted. She was very grateful that she’d never be on the receiving end of that blade.

She cleared her throat as she approached, giving them both a confident smile and trying to hide the sudden onset of nerves that had snuck up on her. “We begin shortly, gentlemen. I thought I’d run through the plan with you?”

“We’re all ears, Hawke. Well, _he_ is at least,” cackled Varric, ignoring the icy glare that Fenris was shooting at him.

“Varric, it’s actually quite important to focus right now.” Hawke was trying to suppress a giggle and appear professional, which was very hard when Varric wasn’t in the mood for such. She pressed on without letting him get the better of her. “I shall be scouting ahead.”

She paused, her eyes darting to Fenris and noting the expression she expected. “I know it’s not _ideal_ , but I’m the best that Aveline’s got. There are few rogues in the guard as it stands, and those that are carry bows. And I’ve got the most experience of any of them. Stealth _is_ my specialty, after all.”

Another pause to let her words sink in but again, not long enough for either of them to protest. “I know that part of the coast, I know where to hide and where _not_ to step. I plan on seeing where they have scouts positioned and trying to find the leader. If we take him out, then the peons will scatter like cockroaches.

“It’ll be a quick job. In and out. Please,” she looked at Fenris directly, “don’t worry.”

Fenris just looked at her sceptically. He didn’t doubt her ability, but under the circumstances he had to wonder about her reasoning. True, when she was not fighting at his side, she was attacking from stealth but when was the last time she had scouted so intensively? A year, possibly two? He watched her with a frown as she petted her hound, telling him in a babying voice to stay with Fenris until she came back.

As she stood and turned to leave, he reached out. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, carefully positioned so the spikes of his gauntlets didn’t even touch her. He pulled her towards him, spinning her so rapidly that her free hand braced against his chest plate. Her startled eyes met his, questioning him, searching his gaze for his reasoning. “Be careful Hawke.” His hoarse whisper brought a faint, reassuring smile to her face and the hand that was on his chest to his cheek. The backs of her bare fingers brushed along the apple of his cheek, cold from the chill of the day. His grip on her wrist relaxed and she interwove her fingers with his, ignoring the way the spikes jabbed into her fingers.

“Extra careful,” she confirmed, winking.

Then she released him and, with a gentle smile, left to rejoin Aveline.

* * *

“Are you sure about this Hawke? I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do if the Viscount gets captured.”

“Ah-hah! Not worried about me, but about your job security.” Hawke grinned at a grim-looking Aveline, sticking out her tongue in jest. She knew it wasn’t the case, but she was getting a little bit tired of everyone treating her as if she was someone special just because she now held a title more heavy than ‘Champion’. Of course people would have been concerned if their Champion was captured, or mourn if she was killed - but Kirkwall would probably have gone into meltdown if their Viscount was either of the former. Sometimes, she felt that she was the only thing holding that fractured city together at times.

“Hawke, this is not the time nor the place.” She sounded tired, stressed, worried. All of it coming across in her fractious tone of voice. She fixed the smirking face of Hawke with a flat look which caused her to moue in a childish manner. Aveline could only sigh heavily and shake her head. She didn’t know if her friend was being serious, or if it was just an act to hide (and perhaps calm) her nerves. Either way, it set the Guard Captain on edge. She wanted professionalism, she had gotten a jester.

“You never let me have any fun.” Hawke couldn’t help but giggle at the glare she got but she held up a hand in an effort to placate the captain. “Alright Aveline, I take your point.” Everyone was so dour, and most seemed to be fretting over her. _Her_ of all people. She was Marian Hawke, the woman who had taken on not only a Rock Wraith in the Deep Roads and won, but had also bested the massive great bastard of an Arishok in single combat, not to mention the utterly insane affair that went down in the Gallows. She was not about to be bested by either over-protectiveness or a ragtag bunch of slavers. She was going to do her _job_. A Viscount should be proactive, not swamped in paperwork.

With a wink to Aveline, she pointed at the shadows of the path that led down towards where the slavers had made their base. Then she vanished, slipping into stealth without so much as a whisper. Her light boots made little sound as she picked her way down the rocky cliffside, keeping to the shadows and using the sounds around her to tell her of her position. Every foot was placed carefully, no sudden movements taken as she braced her hand against cold stone to steady herself. She made sure where she stepped there was no chance of debris falling, no way that those she stalked would know she was there. She was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to those not looking for her.

And the slavers were not looking for her, she slipped effortlessly behind a large outcropping and pressed herself into the shadows. The rocks in front parted to give her a perfect view of the camp, and the bitter wind coming off the sea carried their conversation right to her (though she had to try and ignore the icy bite as it froze her ears off). Her task was clear, scout out how many there were, how well armed they were, how many prisoners they had and - most importantly - find their leaders.

Hunkering down into the darkest shadows, Hawke stilled and simply listened. The chatter was idle banter, but from it she gleamed that they were waiting for a ship to come and collect the two children and the mage. _Wait, what?_ She did a double take. Mage? They had managed to take a mage prisoner? The penny dropped then - _three_ children had been taken…one of which must be beginning to show magical talent. This caused Hawke to frown in thought as she racked her brain as to who would be willing to buy mage bloods.

Nothing immediately sprang to mind, so it was on to the next task - finding the leaders.

Slipping from her listening spot, she scurried quickly but silently down the coast towards where she figured the prisoners were being held. There was several people being addressed as ‘ser’ and ‘captain’, she heard, and figured that was where they were. Falling back into the shadows of the rocks, she peered around the corner to get a good look without being spotted. A man someone called ‘commander’ stood beside a tall thin woman with almost golden eyes. She looked spiteful. And she carried a staff…

The realisation hit Hawke like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind right out of her. The armour the men wore, the insignia they bore and the very important looking woman. Couple this with the fact they intended to sell a mage-blood child. Hawke felt faint. There was only one place that bought magelings, and it twisted her stomach into knots. They were Tevinter and the woman was most likely a Magister.

Cursing a blue streak under her breath, Hawke forced herself to concentrate on the conversation below. The pinched-faced woman reminded her so much of Hadriana, she couldn’t help but wonder if all Tevinter women looked like that. Or perhaps they were related somehow. The revulsion she felt as she mentally marked targets on both the woman and her Commander made it difficult to focus on what was being said, but she had to try,

“…is running late, my lady. The coast is treacherous and they are having trouble navigating, they will be here within the hour at the latest.” The Commander’s voice reminded Hawke of Seneschal Bran and she took comfort that at least she’d get to hear it scream, much unlike she would Bran.

“And what of your plans, Commander? Do you intend to stay and go after the bounty?” The Magister’s voice set Hawke’s teeth on edge and she shuddered. There was a passive-aggressive nature to it, an underlying threat along with a patronising tint that all of her kind had. Vile creatures, the lot of them.

“I do, my lady. Once we have the children on board, we will begin the preparations.”

“And what, exactly, is your plan? She will not be an easy capture, especially not with the company she keeps.” Hawke frowned at this, wondering at who their target was and having a growing feeling of dread as she suspected she already knew.

“We have been watching her for weeks, we know her routine. She will not be difficult if we can get her alone - that will be the hard part. She is hardly ever away from the elf.”

“Who himself is wanted by quite a few. I heard that even the Archon himself expressed an interest now that his former master is out of the way.”

Hawke felt dizzy and sick. They were after _her_. And, more importantly in Hawke’s mind, they were after _Fenris_. She felt an anger flood in after the shock drained away, a burning rage that filled her very soul until she wanted to take on the entire slaver army then and there. With great inner strength, she resisted the foolish desire and calmed herself enough to slip back into total stealth.

Far too rattled and distracted, she fled quickly back to where Aveline and the others stood. Noticing that Fenris and Varric had joined the main body of the guard, she resisted the desperate urge to run up to the elf and cling to him. She would _not_ let anyone take him.

Her anger flaring hot, she slipped from the shadows and caused Varric to almost jump out of his skin. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, don’t do that.” She ignored him and began pacing irritably, grinding her teeth as she attempted to collect herself enough to report back without giving herself away.

“Hawke, what did you see?” Aveline watched cautiously, having seen Hawke when she was like this only once before. She knew Hawke was dangerous when in this mood, but also reckless - and she had to be treated like an unexploded mine.

Hawke stopped and snapped a hand through her hair, glaring out to sea. “Forty men, there or there abouts.” Her voice was deceptively calm, and those that knew her recognised it as the calm before the storm. “No more armed than any other group of thugs or slavers. Mostly close-ranged but there was a few archers, nothing Varric can’t handle.” She glanced at the dwarf who merely made a gesture that he was flattered she had so much confidence in him.

“Three or four captains, recognisable by the red insignia on their belt buckle. One commander. They are waiting for a ship to arrive within the hour.” She nodded to herself as she reeled off the important details to Aveline. Pausing a moment to see if there was anything she missed from that.

“Right, well that doesn’t sound too -”

“I wasn’t finished, Captain.” Hawke’s interruption cut Aveline off. It wasn’t a loud interruption but it was one that commanded authority. It simply had to be listened to. “They have three captives. Two kids and a mageling.” Only now did she meet Fenris’s gaze, which had been on her since she got back. She held it. “They’re Tevinter and…there is a Magister with them.” She watched his face darken, the muscles in his jaw tense as she noticed the flicker of anger dance in those now hard green eyes. She mirrored it almost perfectly.

“One more thing,” she said, looking at Aveline and letting her see a fraction of the worry that fringed her thoughts. “They’re after us.”

Aveline took her meaning instantly. Hawke didn’t need to explain it, or who she meant by ‘us’. She knew that Hawke didn’t mean anyone else - just herself and Fenris. The Tevinters had designs on catching a Viscount and her notorious, Magister-killing partner. And Aveline wasn’t going to let that happen. She nodded stiffly and turned to her men. “You heard the Viscount, you know what to do. Donnic, make sure that Falscote is in your squad, the path is bound to be trapped to buggery and he’s the best we’ve got. Brennan, make sure we aren’t flanked.” The company split then, and Aveline turned back to Hawke, who was busy with her own briefing.

“Varric, there are several very good vantage points up the path I took. Find a nice spot, stay hidden and take out those archers first. I intend to lay a marker on that commander of theirs, watch for it and take the shot if you can.” Her voice was edged with danger, a steely cold bite that rivalled any blade - but her gaze softened when it fell on the eager face of her Mabari. “Go with Varric, boy. Keep those arseholes away from him yeah?” He woofed in affirmation and she scratched behind his ears with a soft coo.

Only then did her eyes fall on Fenris. “Stick with me. I have a feeling things are going to get hairy down there, I saw a lot of shields.” His face was grim, mouth set in a thin line, but he nodded. “The Magister is our priority, we cut a path to her.” Which wasn’t going to be an easy task. She remembered the fight against Danarius vividly, the demons he summoned and the skeletons suddenly ripping up the floorboards in the Hanged Man. Not to mention the ball of dark energy she took to the chest. Magisters were no easy takedown by any stretch of the imagination, but she was side by side with the best.

Hawke slid her distinctive daggers from their sheaths and spun them experimentally, pleased buy the low thrumming sound they made as they cut through the air, humming with enchantments with each arching swing. It had been far too long since she got to use them, the affairs of office even interfering with her usual practice sessions with Fenris, and she couldn’t help but smile as she fell back into the rhythm. She had missed them, of all the silly things; their perfect balance in her hands, the way that years of use had worn smooth where she gripped them, the way the edges never went off the blades despite years of abuse. They were extensions of herself and she was almost as attached to them as Varric was to Bianca - though she would never go quite so far.

She paused as she watched Fenris unsheathe his greatsword, the light catching of the wicked, curved blade as he swung it in a wide arch single-handedly. Appreciatively, she stood silently by as he spun it in his hands, the tip brushing through the sand. It cracked and sizzled, lightning dancing up the edge as it ripped through the air thanks to Sandal’s handiwork.

It was only when she heard a faint humming behind her that she snapped from her reverie. Varric was checking Bianca’s sights, fiddling with the cogs and gears that made up his crossbow, all the while humming to himself. Bianca’s Song. Wordless, melancholy and yet perfectly in time with battle. Hawke longed to hear the words, to know the tale behind how Bianca gained her name, but she knew it was the one story Varric would never tell. But that he was already humming it was telling. “Nervous already, Varric?”

“Only ‘cause they’re after you Hawke.” He replied after a few moments of silence.

Hawke raised her eyebrows, allowing a sly smirk to play upon her face. “I never knew you cared. I’m flattered.”

“Oh don’t give me that,” he chuckled, “besides, if you’re not there, the whole city will go to the dogs. And then were will we be?”

“Can’t argue with that. But I don’t plan on going anywhere for a while yet. I wouldn’t mind a little more gratitude from the city now and again though.”

“Now you’re asking the impossible.”

Hawke merely laughed and jerked her head in the direction of the slaver camp. The leading edge of the Guard was already advancing and Fenris was starting to look agitated. Varric merely nodded at the path that took him up to a vantage point and Hawke concurred. She watched him go, followed by her hound, before turning back to the elf with the ridiculously large sword. Once, Isabela had questioned if he was making up for something by wielding it, trying to goad juicy gossip out of a slightly drunk Hawke. The memory made her smile, and she grinned even more as Fenris gave her a questioning look.

 _Right. Must look professional._ She mentally chided herself and schooled herself back into focus on the upcoming battle. She fell in between her two warrior companions, closer to Fenris than Aveline and followed the company down towards where the fight awaited them.

* * *

The battle was dirty and in close quarters, but it was also very quick.

The recognisable ring of Bianca’s mechanism echoed around the rocks as three arrows sunk into the chest of a slaver that had been creeping up on Hawke as she engaged another, he staggered backwards from the force and Hawke spun around fast enough to see the man’s head fly off from his shoulders from the arching swing of Fenris’s blade. In that one swing alone, he caused two more soldiers to stumble and Hawke was on them in a heartbeat. Her style was naturally quick and dirty, she aimed for the points that Fenris wouldn’t - the backs of the knees, the kidneys, the throat when she saw an opening. One slaver went down in a crumpled heap as her blades sliced through his leather boots and rent his Achilles tendons in two, Fenris finished him off with a sharp downward swing. The other tried to recover but soon found that his armour was useless against a pair of sharp, enchanted blades as they swept deftly across his stomach. “Send the Maker my regards.” The last words he heard as Hawke moved away from him.

All the while, Hawke’s eyes scanned for the commander and Magister, casting a glance around when there was a brief pause in the fighting. A gap opened up in front of her and she caught sight of a distinctive helmet on a large man, the Commander. Without pausing, she moved the right blade to meet the left and pulled out a small red vial from a pouch about her waist. With one shake, the liquid activated and begun to glow; she hurled it at her target and allowed herself to smirk as it hit the mark perfectly. It exploded on his chest and marked him with the vivid red light - her marker was distinctive and designed to attract attention. The look on the commander’s face was one of pure rage and he bellowed a wordless warcry towards Hawke, sending a wave of soldiers rushing towards her.

In quick steps she retreated back to Fenris’s side, listening to his exotic string of curses as he positioned himself for the onslaught. He had several insubstantial cuts to his upper arms but one rather deep laceration to his thigh - though it hardly interfered with his fighting. Just as the wave of slavers was almost upon them, Hawke caught the glint of magic out of the corner of her eye and turned in time to see the Magister summoning a growing ball of flame. Her skin prickled as she suddenly altered her tactics and spun on her heel, grabbing Fenris’s vambrace as she did. With a swift movement, she let her momentum swing him around her behind a large rock just in time for the fireball to lick over the top of it with the intensity of a volcano. She pressed her back into the rock before chancing a quick glance around the edge. The fireball had laid waste to the slavers, but she had to react quickly as another fireball was aimed at her head.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Magisters?” She commented, surprisingly nonchalant as she readjusted the grip on her daggers. Fenris merely grunted in agreement, his head poking up over the top of their cover before ducking down again as more fire blasted over the top.

“She has us pinned,” he growled between deep breaths, watching as Aveline took down a captain with a bash from her shield.

“I really hate it when they play with fire.” Hawke was mostly muttering to herself, chewing on her lip in thought. Bianca’s triple shot echoed out again and Hawke scanned the rocks to locate the dwarf and her Mabari closer than she thought they’d be. Not having much choice, she came to a decision. “Varric! Distraction!”

Barely audible over the chaos, Varric must have heard her because she watched as one of Tomwise’s finest combustion grenades bounced down the cliff to land with an explosion close to the Magister. She was thrown off her feet and Hawke took the opportunity. Fenris followed just as quickly.

In the near distance, a ship flying the Imperium’s colours came into view. Hawke saw it first, then the Commander and the Magister. Hawke hissed as she took flight, ignoring the slavers that charged at her. She was going for that mage and no one was going to stop her.

The commander began to bark at his men, signalling a retreat. “To the water, fall back! Fall ba-” his voice ended in a gurgle as a bolt struck him through the throat, blood gushing from his mouth as he fell forward. Hawke didn’t see him fall but the Magister did. Sensing her end, she scrambled towards the far end of the cliff, as close to the ship as she could without entering the water. Hawke knew what she was doing from the moment she saw the mage begin to lift her staff.

“Oh no you don’t.” Hawke was vaguely aware of a pain in her right calf and someone shouting her name in the distance, but she was already pulling her hand back to throw a dagger at the mage. The dagger was hurled towards the Magister’s chest just as her staff came back down. Time spun in slow motion as the mage vanished just before the tip of the blade would have plunged into her heart. In the distance, the woman reappeared on the deck of the ship and collapsed with exhaustion, Jarvia’s Shank thudding uselessly into the sand just behind where she stood only seconds ago. Hawke roared in anger, bringing her remaining dagger sharply across the throat of a slaver who attempted to sneak up on her.

Within moments, the surviving slavers yielded and the battle ended. Only when hush fell did Hawke notice the large blade going all the way through her right calf. “Ow.” Her voice quivered as the pain hit her, her left leg buckling under her and landing on her backside heavily. She heaved a deep sigh as she glared at the retreating vessel, cursing under her breath in not only the common tongue but also with the more colourful swear words she had picked up from Fenris’s many rants.

So caught up in swearing a blue streak, now staring at her prone dagger some distance away, she completely missed Fenris approaching her. She jumped when his hand connected with her shoulder. He knelt next to her, gore flecked and dusty, his eyes fixed on where the point of the dagger jutted out through her leggings. “You’re still too reckless, Hawke.”

Though his comment was born from concern and his face was etched with worry, Hawke merely laughed bitterly and waved a gritty hand towards the jagged cut on his thigh. “And you’re not as indestructible as you think.”

Fenris winced, noticing the cut for the first time and grunting - though Hawke couldn’t work out if it was in annoyance or pain. He shook his head, a dry chuckle escaping. “So it would seem.” Taking hold of her arm, he hooked his head under it. “Come on Hawke, lets get that mage to do what he came to do.” Hauling her up bodily and ignoring the pain that now pulsated through his thigh.

Together they limped back to where Senior Enchanter Riffen was patching up the broken and Aveline was prowling around, barking orders at her men to make sure that all the arrested slavers get taken back to Kirkwall. Donnic was fine, Brennan, however was in the middle of being healed. She had taken a nasty blow to the arm which had shattered it and Hawke overheard the oily enchanter saying that while the bone was healed, it would take weeks to return to normality.

Aveline noticed Hawke and Fenris first, rushing over and taking hold of Hawke by the other arm despite her protests. Waving them off, Hawke sat her self down on a rocky ledge and watched with amusement as the Guard Captain went to harass the mage.

Riffen was good at his job, Hawke had to begrudgingly admit. From the moment the blade was pulled from her leg, she felt the cool wash of healing magic run over her. It mended not only the hole in her calf, but also all the small cuts and scrapes she had gained without leaving so much as a scar. All that remained was a dull feeling of the deep bruise left by the blade. Healing magic could only go so far.

After forcing Fenris to agree to be healed (blackmail being the only thing that worked), she was distracted by the approach of Varric and her Mabari. Smiling brightly as the dog bounded up to her, he bounced around barking happily until she made a big thing about massaging his ears. Varric was looking rather smug, and Hawke smirked at him playfully. “You took your time getting that shot, Varric.”

“Madam, you _wound_ me.” He staggered back, pressing a hand to his hairy chest in mock hurt before cackling. “That was one hell of a stunt you pulled, Hawke, no one would ever suspect you being out of the game for months.”

Hawke merely bowed with a flourish, laughing as she rose.

Her laughter died on her lips as she saw a pair of guards leading three very scared looking children towards her. Two elves and a human, just like the report said, though it was strange. An elf and the human walked together, while the other elf walked slightly apart from them, getting frightened glances. That must be the mageling, she figured. With a heavy sigh, she walked up to them and knelt down before them, looking up into three pairs of scared eyes. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.” She smiled in what she hoped was a comforting way (she never did know how to deal with kids) before turning towards the more isolated one. “Are you the one who used magic?”

“I didn’t mean to!” The elf child squeaked and Hawke was having great difficulty figuring out if it was a boy or a girl, the voice didn’t help much either.

With another sigh, Hawke patted the child on the shoulder. “I know, kid. I know. Varric, could you go and fetch the Templar watching our healer please?”

The dwarf nodded silently and left. It wrenched at her heart to turn the child over to the Templars, but there was nothing else she could do. If she let it go, then who knows what problems might occur later. Better the child go now, than for further upheaval to occur in the Alienage later. It wasn’t long before the Templar came clanking up in his absurd armour. Hawke looked at him with tired eyes, frowning at the slit in his helmet. “Take off your helmet, Templar.” She hated not being able to see people’s faces.

The man under the helmet was young, his vibrant red hair a shock against his pale skin. He could be called handsome, if you liked your men to come in metal plate and have an addiction to lyrium. Hawke levelled him with an icy gaze. “This child is a mage and belongs in the Circle. However, under _my_ orders as Viscount, you are to take them to Junior Enchanter Bethany Hawke. If Knight-Commander Cullen has issues with this, he comes to me. Do you understand?” The Templar nodded and went to grab the child, but Hawke snapped out and caught his wrist, twisting it back so that his armour pinched just enough to show on his face. “And you are to do it _gently_.” Her voice was a dangerous whisper, threatening all kinds of trouble to anyone who didn’t follow her commands. Her point was made, loud and clear.

She released the Templar and massaged her temples as she watched the guards take the other two off back to the city. Then she wandered towards the edge of the cliff where he dagger still lay on the sand. With a grunt as her muscles began to protest, she stooped to pick it up and sheathe it quickly before folding her arms over her chest and staring out over the Waking Sea. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky and she estimated that by the time they got back to Kirkwall, it would have set completely. The temperature was also dropping, her breath becoming visible as a fine mist.

A gentle touch to her arm pulled her attention to Fenris as he stopped by her side, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at one side of his mouth. She smiled weakly at him, wrapping her arm about his waist and leaning into him despite the gore, grime and sand that covered them both. She let out a heavy sigh as he cradled her, propping his chin on the top of her bowed head. “I think we both deserve a bath when we get home, Fenris.”


	7. Repose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one because it's a bit of a...inbetween chapter type thing. I didn't want to jump straight from the Wounded Coast back into the affairs of Office, there needed to be some kind of break there. Though the result is a bit...soppy.
> 
> I really don't know where this one was going because I had to fight so hard to stop it becoming depraved. I want to keep this fic at a T rating if I can, but because of their interactions here, there will end up being smut in it's companion set of one-shots. Though my attempts are rather pathetic so far. It's probably safe to say that at the end of this chapter there is some 'offscreen' bouncybouncy :3
> 
> I've also been taking part in the BSN Asunder writing challenge, so writing and rewriting and then sourcing a beta for that took away time from this. Once the winners have been announced (I won't be among them XD), I'll stick my story on here. It was fun. I might even be willing to continue it, as it contains Riffen, the 'slimy' senior enchanter from the previous chapter when he was younger.

Hawke had been right in her estimation. By the time they had reached her estate in Hightown, the sun had long since set. The sky was filled with pale white clouds which glowed in one fixed spot and hid the bright moon. It had also begun to snow. The first snow of the season seemed to buoy Hawke’s reflective mood, she was almost childish in the way she attempted to catch the large flakes on her tongue or on the palm of her gloves. Every year was the same, her childlike glee was something Fenris found enjoying to watch, even if it did bemuse him. He knew that if enough snow fell, she would be out building snowmen, snowdogs and, much to Fenris’s (and the late Leandra’s) alarm, snow ogres. Though how she had managed to build one life-sized and fairly detailed without any form of assistance was a puzzle in and of itself, even more confusing was Hawke’s delight in attacking it with her blades, giggling with juvenile delight. When asked, she just smiled and cryptically answered “for Carver.” Though whether it was a form of revenge, or just a tribute, Fenris didn’t know.

Without truly seeing anything, Fenris leaned on the landing banister and stared out the window into the darkness. Frost had formed on the edges of the panes and the occasional flake caught the light as it floated past. Hawke was in the bath that Bodahn had already taken the liberty to draw for their return and he had laughed as she hugged the dwarf and planted a loud kiss on his forehead for being so thoughtful. Bodahn’s face was priceless, though he was less impressed with the smell of his mistress. As always, Fenris had let her go first, knowing that she never lingered for long. It was still long enough for his thoughts to track back to the battle, however, and he frowned at the memory of Hawke blindly charging for that Magister. She was still so reckless, did she learn nothing from the previous battles against them? He was just glad that the woman had chose to flee instead of fight.

The sweet scent of soap floated to him as the door to the bedroom opened, a flushed looking Hawke padding barefoot from the room. She was humming dreamily to herself as she rubbed the towel over her head, a blissful smile on her face. The sight of her so content caused Fenris’s thoughts to momentarily flee and he couldn’t help but run his eyes over her. Her soft gown stopped at her knees and he couldn’t help but scowl at the blooming purple bruise that had formed where the dagger had torn a hole. Though the wound was gone, the bruise lingered - just like the one where the mage had healed his thigh.

“Andraste bless that dwarf! I really don’t pay him enough,” Hawke was talking mostly to herself, still smiling as she drifted towards where Fenris stood. “Remind me to give him a pay…” she paused, cutting her self short and her soft expression turning confused as to why Fenris was glaring at her. She blinked at him dumbly for a split second before smirking playfully, “alright, I give up. What have I done now?”

Almost apologetically, Fenris sighed, his eyes drifting down to the bruise again. “You should be more careful, Hawke,” he sounded more disappointed than angry. Seeing her wounded like that was bad enough, he couldn’t begin to imagine watching anything worse happen to her.

Though she knew it was only concern that he was expressing, and she found it hopelessly adorable, she pouted. “I’m a big girl Fenris, I can look after myself.” She grinned at him and stepped closer, hoping bring his mood up to somewhere near her own. Instead, all she got was a glare. She couldn’t help but look hurt.

“I’m serious Hawke. I can’t…” he cut himself off, unable to hold her gaze. _I can’t bear to see you hurt._

He didn’t need to finish, she understood perfectly by the way he stood, utterly defeated. With a resigned sigh, she closed the gap between then and reached out a sweet smelling hand to cup his chin, turning him to face her again. Her smile was warm and reassuring but her eyes were sad. “Do you know why I didn’t want that mage to get away? Do you know why I wanted those slavers dead so badly?” Her hand trailed down to his shoulder, her thumb making small circles on the fabric of his tunic. He shook his head, not quite understanding why she was asking. She frowned, her eyes drifting down to where those pale lines of lyrium disappeared into the shadows of his collar. “I wanted to send a message to the Imperium. I wanted them to know that they cannot simply get away with putting a bounty on my head. And they absolutely cannot have any ‘interest’ in you.”

Hawke hadn’t told him the details about what she had heard during her reconnaissance mission, she had been too wound up before the battle and too drained afterwards, but now he was beginning to wonder what exactly she had learned. Obviously, the slavers were gunning for her - this wasn’t a surprising fact considering she sided against the mages. The puzzle came from this interest in himself. Word had obviously reached the Imperium that Danarius had perished at the hands of his former pet, and while Fenris had a strange curiosity as to what implications that might have had on the senate, he didn’t relish the thought of having any other Magister wanting to claim him. Before he had the chance to ask her, however, she sighed.

“I suppose it’s not a terrible thing she escaped. I mean, she saw Kirkwall’s finest cut through all of her men and her commander with hardly any trouble. And I’m fairly sure she knew that she’d be dead if she hadn’t reached that ship.” She was staring at the ceiling, a finger idly tapping on her lips as she considered this. “Is it too much to hope for that her account might make the Imperium think twice?”

“If I know one thing, it’s that the Imperium isn’t usually willing to relent so easily.”

He sounded bitter to Hawke’s ears, and resigned. She frowned at him but he didn’t see it, he was looking at a nowhere point just past her left shoulder. Inwardly, she cursed herself for bringing it up so she closed the gap between them and let a sly smirk creep across her face. “Then let them try. I’m more than willing to send them packing like I did the Qunari.” Her smirk turned into a gregarious grin when he met her eyes, a single black brow arched sceptically before a low chuckle escaped him. She was reminded then of how much she loved that sound, and she trailed a hand up the front of his tunic with a low hum.

All at once, she stopped, frowning in thought. Then she sniffed, taking a deep breath in before exhaling in an undignified snort, pushing Fenris away in disgust. “Fenris, you stink,” she laughed, throwing her towel at him before pointing in jest at the bedroom door. “Go and have a bath while the water is still warm. I’ll banish you to the spare room otherwise.”

* * *

After Fenris had been forcefully directed (not ordered, never _ordered_ ) into the bedroom where the bathtub awaited him, Hawke had wandered down the stairs and padded softly over to the inner door. The key was already in the lock and she turned it, smiling faintly as she heard the faint click, locking out the harsh Satinalia weather in favour of the cosy warmth of home. She paused by her hound, crouching down to his level and massaging his ears as was per the normal night time ritual. She deviated from the usual routine, however, as she took a detour over to what was normally her writing desk.

When not dining formally herself and Fenris had taken to eating there, and considering they ate formally so very rarely it had become a regular dining table. The chairs, which were two soft armchairs that had been relocated from what was a ‘mens drinking room’, had been placed at one end and the space on the table in front of them was now bare of writing equipment. The only thing that sat there was an open bottle of red wine and two goblets. There was just enough wine to fill both goblets, so she poured out what was left and rested the bottle on the floor to show Bodahn it was empty. Picking up a goblet in each hand, she steadily made her way back up the stairs, careful not to spill.

The door was pushed shut, but not fully closed. The servants were in bed and only Hawke was about, she couldn’t help but let a small smile creep onto her face at the thought that Fenris trusted her that much. It was still such an alien feeling, that he was _there_ and wasn’t going to flee. That he reassured her in such small ways, even without knowing he was. That he was subconsciously letting her in more than he knew how to do. With the point of her elbow, she pushed open the door and entered, closing the door behind her with a foot until the catch caught.

Fenris lazed languidly in the copper tub, one leg dangling over the edge and the back of his head resting on the raised back edge so that he was looking at the ceiling. It was a tantalising sight, but Hawke merely smiled at the fact he was content - it still amused her that she was at her happiest when he was. She stared at the top of his head for a moment, slightly alarmed at the difference she saw - his now damp snow-white hair had been bordering on a dirty beige-grey when she sent him to wash. Did they really accumulate that much dirt, or was it just more noticeable because of his hair colour?

“Should I be concerned that you’re just standing there, Hawke?” The soft, calm baritone snapped her out of her thoughts and she gave a faint laugh, her eyes tracing down the edge of the (expensive) beaten metal bath only for them to start following the elegant, winding trails of blue-white lyrium that wound down Fenris’s exposed calf. She couldn’t help but find them beautiful, even if the concept and their conception was ugly.

Softly she wandered towards the bed, lowering a goblet to him as she drew near. Wordlessly, he took it, resting his forearm on the side of the bath but still looking at the ceiling. Hawke figured he was just enjoying the warm water. For her own comfort, she grabbed a blanket before sitting on the side of the bed, leaning against one of the solid wood posts. Careful not to spill her wine, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and settled with her head against the post and a faraway smile on her face.

The silence was comfortable, just the gentle cracking of the fire in the hearth. Hawke had settled on staring at Fenris’s toes without really seeing. She had already admired his feet before, and worked out that he would need shoes that were almost two inches longer than her own, seeing as his toes began where hers ended when she compared them. She had told him they wouldn’t be practicing dancing for the ball until she bought him shoes. That wasn’t entirely true, she had decided that they would both practice barefoot until correct footwear was attained. But right now, her mind had wandered to other matters. “How are you with shortswords, Fenris?”

The question seemed to come out of nowhere and caught him by surprise. Blinking at the ceiling for a moment before tilting his head back down to look at her face, only to find her unfocused gaze on his feet and offering no clue as to her meaning. When no answer was forthcoming, she continued, still not meeting his gaze. “I know you’re a master at greatswords, and I’ve seen you decimate a training dummy when I gave you my daggers - even though you lacked my _finesse_.” She met his eyes then, a teasing grin on her lips. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with something like Aveline used to wield before she got attached to that axe I gave her for her nameday.”

He considered this for a while, taking a sip of wine as he scoured his brain for any possible memory of using a shortsword since his initial escape. He had reversed some of the slaver’s own swords on them in defence at times, did that count? Eventually, he shrugged, causing the water to ripple. “I can’t imagine them being much different than daggers or greatswords, the grip and balance are different but I don’t see them being difficult to master.” He frowned then, tilting his head to catch her eye, which had drifted off to one side and was now gazing off into vacant space. “Why do you ask?”

Obviously lost in thought, Hawke’s attention focused on the question, her eyes meeting his momentarily before they dropped to her wine. “I was just thinking that you can’t have your greatsword with you at the ball, but I don’t want you unarmed. I’ll feel vulnerable enough with just my knife, and skilled as you are at unarmed combat, I will feel much more comfortable if you had something.”

It made sense. Hawke had been receiving death threats more and frequently of late and given some of the more extreme nature of some of the notes, it seemed logical that whoever was sending them might use a public event to prove a point. Even so, Fenris was concerned that she had been thinking too much on the events of the day and the all new threat that had presented itself. Even when she smiled, she looked tired and worn; her shoulders sagged under the weight of that blanket and she just looked…small. He hated seeing her like that. He downed his wine in one gulp and reached down to put it on the floor. “A shortsword will be fine, Hawke. I doubt it will serve any other purpose than decoration, however.”

This made her smile and, seeing that he was making moves to exit his bath, she shrugged out of the blanket to wander to the dresser. One hand still cupping her wine, she hooked her free hand under the lip of the drawer and pulled it open with a groan of protest from the aged wood, then she reached in and grabbed a fresh towel. She drifted past, handing the large towel sheet to him as she past without a word before standing and staring up at the window with her back to him.

Fenris watched her curiously, patting himself dry and feeling the bite of the chill on his skin in comparison to the warm water of the bath. He saw her shiver and pull herself inward, she was only wearing that soft but thin robe after all - not exactly enough for the weather. The snow had stopped, the sky had cleared and she was bathed in that extra bright moonlight that only seemed to happen when it was bouncing off fresh snow. It clung to her curves, fluttered through her hair. She was just…beautiful. And sad. With a heavy sigh, he cinched the towel around his waist and padded silently over to her, one hand finding her shoulder, the other her waist.

Her instinct was to lean back into him until she could feel his chest against her back, causing his arm to slide around her waist and the other to drape at a strange, yet comfortable angle over her chest. He smelled of soap, yet the musky scent of armour oil and leather never seemed to leave him. It was just undeniably _him_ , and Hawke found a deep solace in it. It was something she once feared she would never have, now she feared that she would lose it just like she had lost almost everything else. The fingers of her free hand found the hand that rested on her stomach and entwined with his, a barely audible sigh of content escaping past her lips.

In that moment of blissful silence of simply sharing body heat with Hawke, Fenris had simply buried his face into her hair and never wished to leave it. Time slowed between them in that simple, complex embrace. Nothing needed to be said, and neither wanted the moment to end.

A slight shift of Hawke’s position roused Fenris from his trance-like state and he responded by letting his nose slide along the back of her neck until his chin rested on her shoulder. With a feather light touch, he planted a series of kisses on her skin, pleased with the contented hum he received from his attentions.

“I was wondering something.” Hawke’s hushed voice caused him to pause and he tilted his head so that he could just see one of her eyes through her hair. “Would you miss Kirkwall, if we left?”

He frowned in thought, shifting his grip on her slightly but still keeping her close and ignoring the growing bite of the cold night air on his back. He studied what little expression he could see, but gleamed nothing from it. What _was_ troubling her? “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“But do you consider it home?”

“Hawke,” a sigh was heavy in his voice, squeezing her hand gently, “I have never considered anywhere ‘home’. Kirkwall has been the place I have stayed the longest, true, but I would not miss it.”

“So…if I were to suggest we…”

“Do you wish to leave?”

“No.” She cut in, far too fast to be genuine. “At least, I…not right now. But I cannot see a future here. Even with me here trying to glue things back together, things are falling apart. I don’t want to be here when it breaks.” She was looking out the window again, her face etched with worry and confusion. “Everyone has their lives to lead, and I cannot bear to stay in office. Today was enough to make me realise how much a stagnant life that is.”

Fenris couldn’t argue that the day had been satisfying. Doing something other than just watching Hawke conduct the affairs that passed through the Viscount’s office was draining in a different way than fighting was. As much as he wished to leave running and fighting behind him, he found himself missing it despite himself. “What did you have in mind?”

“You’ve never been further south than here, have you?” He answered with a simple shake of the head that Hawke felt, rather than saw. She allowed a sly smirk to cross her face as she looked sideways at him, catching his eye. “Then I shall show you my homeland. I think you’d like Ferelden, if a city elf like you can stand all the countryside.” She broke out into a triumphant smile as his laugh rumbled against her back and he squeezed her close in mock admonition.

“Feeling homesick? Or are you just eager to have me traipsing through dirt like a Dalish?”

Hawke could hear the smile in his voice and chuckled at the though of dragging Fenris around all the backwater villages she had lived in as a child. But the thought plucked at a long-forgotten memory and she fell back into a thoughtful state. “As amusing as the thought of you in Ferelden clay mud up to your knees is, you’re closer to the mark than you think.” She frowned then, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment. “A year after we left, they began rebuilding Lothering. I’m sure you’ve heard the tale of how it was destroyed and I ended up here from my official biographer.” Though how much of the tale Varric told to the public was the truth, and how much was gross exaggeration was questionable - she knew that he had told the bare truth of what he knew to Fenris. She had sworn never to recount that tale again after she had told Varric, and while he knew the truth, he never stuck to it. The Champion had to be larger than life, but telling his crowd-pleasing epic to Fenris wouldn’t have ended well. “I lost a lot there, but part of me still wishes to return. If only to close that chapter of my life for good. Besides, I’m pretty sure King Alistair was hinting heavily at me returning. Might pay to stop by in Denerim. It’s probably the smallest city you’ll ever likely to set foot in.”

He chuckled slightly and Hawke felt it as a brush of warm air on her neck, rather than hear it. He placed another kiss on the side of her neck. “Then we will go to Ferelden. When you are ready.”

“I expected more reluctance than that.”

“Why? There is only one reason why I remain here, and if that reason leaves for Ferelden then I shall follow her without protest.”

Hawke was dumbstruck, blinking blankly at his words and their meaning and going slightly limp in his arms. She didn’t notice him take the goblet from her hand or place it on the trunk in front of them bed, though she was vaguely aware that his hold on her had changed. She was smiling distantly without knowing it. She had heard him say similar things before, but every time it seemed to take her by surprise and leave her floundering. He seemed to enjoy doing it too, as he took the opportunity to slip a hand inside of her robe while his lips trailed her jaw line. His touch roused her from her stupor and she turned her head sharply to catch him unaware, her lips crashing into his with surprising force considering that he distinctly had the advantage of position.

She twisted in his arms, fighting for position while unwilling to break contact. He gave ground, letting her turn to face him enough so that he could deepen the kiss. She let him take the lead, forgoing their usual struggle for dominance over the simple enjoyment of the moment until they came up for air. She ran a gentle finger along the lower edge of his ear and down his jaw line, a faint smile on her face. “I suppose that’s a good thing,” she said, finally commenting on his remark. “Because I could never leave you behind.”


End file.
